One True Sentence

I want to give you something.  I don't want to sound wounded because I am not.  What I want to do is reach in and draw out the truth, a nod to Hemingway perhaps, a reaction to rain in June to be sure.

I love the rain.

A few days ago on Twitter's #writechat we were talking about the writer's voice which inevitably moves on to truth which in turn becomes self examination and honesty in your writing.  And I wonder how honest I am in my writing, in memoir writing.

Not much.

And to a certain extent we don't want memoir writers to be too honest because too honest can lead to blame and contempt.  I just don't want to go there.  It's not enjoyable.  Drama disagrees with me, it gives me heartburn.  It makes me growl.

But rain in June does funny things to me.  Listening to Leonard Cohen does funny things to me. 

Before I dropped out of college, I had several poems published in the school's lit mag.  This was before I let English take me back, while I was still pretending to want a reasonable career in Interior Design.  The day the journal came out I nabbed a copy and took it with me to class.  My instructor, a women, opened the book, searched out my name and proceeded to read my words out loud to the class.  It was fine, all our classes were together for the most part, we knew eachother well and I sort of stood out as the...I don't know what I was, but not timid, and to them, not dull.

So, she read the first poem in a very cavalier fashion and moved on.  This is what she read next:

Old Words

I wanted to read from dirty old men
to dry up the lisp
to learn the currents of the belly
what they hide in them
to turn a word.

I began by smoking cigarettes
and hoarding brandy
followed the swing of words down the spine
opened windows
and doors
and returned in my bra and underpants
to the living room floor.

I wanted to read the smoky old ramblings
the canterings on
about campfires and ships and women
but when I started
the sky closed up
and threw down its rain.

 ***

Though I sit here fully clothed with nothing but a cup of cold coffee, the rain still seeps into my spirit, while the words of men, this time the music of Leonard Cohen, inhabits me and I think I should do something, write something honest.  This is not to say women don't have this power over words, quite the contrary.  It's only that this day in particular is for Cohen.

So what do I write?  What total truth needs to be revealed?


 ***

Unburdening the Bridges

I've been misled in my thinking, or rather, I mislead myself years ago when I first considered memoir writing and my childhood.  First, I thought being the youngest of 9 was a story in itself, with all the characters to draw from, the odd clashes and bang-ups, but it isn't.  Most of those memories aren't mine, I don't own the stories behind them because they didn't happen to me, I was just looking over my shoulder while playing dress up in my big sister's clothes.

Then I thought I'd dive a little deeper, ring myself out by depositing small glimpses all around the blogosphere.  It helped seeing that when I really hunker down in my skin and examine the early years a lot of my family disappears.  I'm not saying that I want them to disappear, only that they fade out creating their own rotations leaving my perception that much clearer.  

In reading Vivian Gornick's highly acclaimed memoir instructional The Situation and the Story I have come to realize that my place within my family, my parents, siblings, the divorce & subsequent moves result not in a story at all, but the situation surrounding a story I have yet to fully tease out.

Tonight I am breathing a sigh of relief and letting myself relax knowing my story is unbinding.  The words will come.