Suggested Memoirs

I just finished and am still mulling over the book The Memoir and the Memoirist, by Thomas Larson. It gave me a lot to think about. It also made me want to start reading memoirs and personal essays like crazy, to see if I can apply the observations he made to each work. Here is a list of the books he discusses throughout the text:

The Kiss and The Mother Knot: A Memoir, by Kathryn Harrison
Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt (Also 'Tis and Teacher Man)
The Liars' Club, by Mary Karr
The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother, by James McBride
Fierce Attachments: A Memoir, by Vivian Gornick
This Boy's Life: A Memoir, by Tobias Wolff
A Hole In The World: An American Boyhood, by Richard Rhodes
The unexpurgated edition of The Diary of Anne Frank, by Anne Frank
Autobiography of a Face, by Lucy Grealy
Prozac Diary and Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, by Lauren Slater
Light Years, by Le Anne Schreiber
Anna: A Daughter's Life, byWilliam Loizeaux
Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi
Moments of Being, by Virginia Woolf
Lost In Place, by Mark Salzman
My Father's House: A Memoir of Incest and Healing, by Sylvia Fraser
Tuesdays With Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lessons, by Mitch Alborn
An American Childhood and For the Time Being, by Annie Dillard
Firebird and Still Life With Oysters and Lemons, by Mark Doty
Fault Line, by Laurie Alberts
Fat Girl: A True Story, by Judith Moore
Intoxicated By My Illness, by Anatole Broyard
This Wild Darkness: The Story of My Death, by Harold Brodkey
Crossed Over: A Murder, A Memoir, by Beverly Lowry
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers
Breakup: The End of a Love Story, by Catherine Texier
Fugitive Spring: Coming of Age in the '50s and '60s, by Deborah Digges
Paradise: Piece By Piece, by Molly Peacock
Fear of Fifty, by Erica Jong
The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts, by Maxine Hong Kingston
Are You Somebody? The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman, by Nuala O'Faolain
A Walker in the City, by Alfred Kazin
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, by Mary McCarthy
All Over But the Shoutin', by Rick Bragg
Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America, by Elizabeth Wurzel
Omaha Blues: A Memory Loop, by Joseph Lelyveld
An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness, by Kay Redfield Jamison
Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, by William Styron
Lucky, by Alice Sebold
My Life in the Middle Ages: A Survivor's Tale, by James Atlas
Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris
Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, by Barbara Brown Taylor

The author of The Memoir and the Memoirist does not so much review these books as dissect them and that alone would make reading them along with his book worthwhile.

A Writer Reads

Bill Roorbach, in his book Writing Life Stories, insists that writers must do two things in order to become good at their art: 1) write, and 2) read. The first is self-evident, although I'm sure the author meant that we should write a lot. But what about reading? Is it really necessary to be a reader to be a writer?

I would guess that it's the rare writer who doesn't read. Most people fall in love with the written word when they're first learning to decipher it. Not everyone who reads will be a writer, but the two go together like torturing animals goes with being a sociopath. (The association between reading and writing is more benign, though, needless to say.)

I read for many reasons. It used to be that I read almost exclusively for entertainment and escape. I still read for that reason (usually to mask a bad period of depression or anxiety), but I also read for information and inspiration. I have several non-fiction books going at the same time. I read a little in one, until it gives me an idea that I find I want to write about and then I pick up another and read it until it does the same. Rarely do I read a non-fiction book straight through. I have fifty-some books out of the library right now. I'm not reading them all at one time; I tend to shift around to three or four and then switch to another group. Sometimes I don't read more than a couple of chapters before deciding I don't need that book anymore. Sometimes I find that a certain book just isn't that interesting. But I like to have this many on hand--just in case.

In case I can't think of anything to write about. In case I get bored. In case I feel curious about something. In case I want to expand my mind. Right now I have several books about feminism and about writing. I have a book about Catholicism and one about the black experience in America. I have a couple about personal finance. I have two autobiographies set in Berlin during the war years. I have three or four recently released novels. And these are just my library books. My personal library is all over the place: history (German, Islamic, Indian, World War I and II), religious books, collections of essays, poetry and literature, books on ADD, German language textbooks and tapes, gardening books, reference books, memoirs and biographies, social commentary, literary criticism, children's books and feminist writings. And of course that's not including all my writing books, which I will go into in another post.

I hold onto my books forever. A few years ago when I was really broke, I sold quite a few of my books on half.com. But most of the ones I sold were "new" books that I picked up at garage sales and discount bookstores. I still have all my textbooks from any class I've ever taken. All the books I've received through introductory offers from book clubs. And of course the ones I've been given. I keep them all.

Just in case.

The Angelic Spy

Jayne Anne Phillips, in her essay in The Washington Post Book World's collection, The Writing Life (2003), calls the writer an "angelic spy." Writers are entrusted with the secrets we spend our lives discerning and attempting to reveal as truth on paper. The tricky thing is to do so without betraying the trust of those whose secrets we carry.

I once wrote an essay about my then step-daughter and it was published before she even knew that I had written it. I didn't reveal a big secret; it was about a gift she gave me. But even so, she was upset that I had written and submitted it without telling her first. I contended that it happened to me, so it was fair game (although I said it a bit more diplomatically). I defended myself more vigorously when my sister-in-law criticized me for using someone else's life to further my craft. But if we don't write about others--or what happens to us in our relationships to others--what do we have to write about? Every encounter has an element of secrecy to it. Everyone assumes that what they say and do is going to be kept sacrosanct by any witness. That's not realistic. We talk--and write--about each other as a way of telling stories. Call it gossip if you will. It sounds better to call writers angelic spies, but it amounts to the same thing.

But there is a difference. Gossip implies a certain maliciousness. Most (but not all) writers carry no malice when they write. We are attempting to tease the truth out of what happens in life and reveal that truth through our use of language. But others may see us as outlaws, living outside the boundaries of accepted behavior: we tell on people. We spy on them and then reveal what we discover to the world.

Our defense is that we do it for "angelic" reasons. We do not seek to hurt, but to heal. Secrets can be poisonous, festering in the minds and souls of those who keep them. The sensitive writer is not trying to "out" her subjects. She just wants to help the reader make sense of his behavior. Perhaps the reader has had the same thing happen to him. Perhaps he has done the same thing to others. Reading about these "secrets" can be cathartic. It gives the reader a chance to look into the souls of those who have tried to keep them and to learn the lessons they learned--or should have learned.

Saying that what writers do is angelic implies that we are above the world, seeing all and carrying messages from God. Isn't that exactly what writers do? There is a spiritual aspect to all writing, whether or not we are religious. There is a higher power of some kind at work as we seek to delve beneath the surface of a person's soul. I have used the word "soul" three times in the above sentences. That's not because I can't think of another word; I just can't think of a better one. Emotions, actions, thoughts, personalities all add up to the soul, that deeper entity that defies facile descriptions. That's why writers spend their lives trying to unravel the secrets others, and we ourselves, carry. We know that no life is fully described without revealing at least some of its secrets.

And so we spy. We witness and we record. And we attempt to explain, either directly or indirectly through the use of parable, analogy, simile and metaphor. We have come to earth to speak to the hearts of ourselves and others. You could even say that we have a divine imperative to do so.

It's not easy to be a revealer of secrets. It requires a certain sensitivity and discretion. We need to speak the truth in love. That is what angels do.

My Map Story: Two Houses

A little girl rides up and down on her tricycle in front of a brick ranch house. She does this every day until a woman finally comes to the door and asks if she wants to come in to play. She never goes to the door herself. She always waits to be asked.

That little girl was me and this is a metaphor for my life.

I was always intensely shy and waited for everything that came to me. My sister, on the other hand, reached out and grabbed what she wanted. When we were pre-teens my mother told us that we could have our rooms decorated any way we wanted. My sister was quite specific: miniature yellow rose wallpaper, green carpet, frilly white curtains, white painted bed and dresser. I said I didn't mind leaving my room the way it was. It was already wallpapered by the previous owners and although I hated its pink gingham design, I hated to ask for a complete makeover. It would be too much trouble. It wasn't even that that bothers me now. It was that I didn't even know how I really wanted it. It might have partly been because I'd been forced to leave my special bedroom behind when we moved down the street to an almost identical house from the one I lived in from the ages of 5 till 12.

In our previous house I had asked for and gotten a room with three red walls and one white. The wall color was called "Apache Red." (It had either been that or "Canary Yellow.") I used ticky-tacky to put up maps all over the walls that I'd gotten out of our National Geographics and was particularly proud of the perfect accent: the globe that sat on my desk. In the new house, I didn't even have a desk, just a huge ugly gray dresser and two twin beds. I don't remember now how I ended up with the pink bedroom. In the first house it had been the master bedroom but a larger master bedroom had been added to the new house and I suppose because I was the oldest I got the next largest.

I liked the size of the room, but I never did anything to make it my own. I was twelve and the move wasn't easy on me. Even though it was just down the street, it took me away from the immediate circle of friends I'd had at the first house. The two houses were exactly alike except for the raised roof in the back of the second one that enabled the addition of a new master bedroom and bath. And it had a basement. But I never warmed up to the new house. I lived there for seven years--the same amount of time I'd lived in the old house--but I always thought of the old one as my true home, as if the second one was an imposter.

I still dream frequently about the first house and rarely about the second. I loved the shake shingles of the first, painted gray with white trim, the rock garden that Mom had built in the back yard, the brick patio with its huge awning outside the family room window, the pitch black attic where my sister and I tried to scare the bejeebers out of each other and our friends. We were the first family to live in that house. Our back yard was a sea of mud that first year. I remember falling into it and thinking it was hilarious.

Our dog became famous at that house. He followed us everywhere, to school, where we could hear him howl when the principal shut him up in the boy's bathroom until my mom could come get him, or to the grocery store where he learned to let himself in using the automatic door. Everyone in the village knew Jojo. He was de riguer at birthday parties because he would "sing" along with "Happy Birthday." The neighborhood kids were always trying to get him to howl to that and the Mickey Mouse Club theme--those were the only songs that did the trick.

When we moved to the new house, I had to leave all those memories behind. I felt homeless. I never settled in. It didn't help that I moved to middle school shortly after we moved and I began to have to navigate the waters of prepubescence. That wasn't the hardest part, though. We had originally moved to the new house so that my maternal grandfather, who'd been a widower for many years, could move in with us. I adored my grandfather and couldn't wait. I still remember the day he called and told us that he was getting married and moving to another town instead. I was crushed.

I was crushed a lot in that house. I had all of my first loves, requited and not, while living in that house. My mother and I began to fight bitterly during those years. And not five years after we moved there, my grandfather died suddenly of a heart attack.

With all of that, why would I care about pink gingham wallpaper?

Writing Exercises

I hate writing books that sprinkle writing exercises throughout their text. Like medicine, I know they're good for me, but I find them irritating. I usually don't feel like doing what they prescribe. But I've admitted my need for outside advice. So why do I resist taking it?

Sometimes I just don't connect with the exercise. It seems too obvious, I've done something like it before, or I don't have the patience. But I often resist because of the author's tone: in Writing Life Stories, the author doesn't just suggest that you do his exercises, he demands that you do. I don't react well to that. I'm not saying that the exercises aren't valuable. I just want more meat in the text before I jump into a writing exercise.

One thing that throws me is when I don't know how thoroughly I should do the exercises.The first one Bill Roorbach presents is to make a map of your childhood neighborhood. He's used this exercise in classes he's taught and the response has been everything from a quick sketch to a collage. Another assignment is to make a timeline. Again, he's received the bare minimum to a color-coded life-long calendar. How detailed do I need to be? Isn't it enough that I have the map or timeline in my head? I can see the value of these exercises, especially if you're getting ready to write a memoir, but I'd rather come back to them later, if at all. I want to hear more from the author about his own writing and teaching experiences.

But it seems that this book is very much an exercise book and it seems that for maximum benefit I need to do the exercises in order. I bridle at that. I decide to compromise: I won't draw the map or the timeline, but I will do the writing exercises he assigns to go with them.

The first one is to tell a story from your map. Mine starts out with "A little girl rides up and down on her tricycle in front of a brick ranch house. She does this every day until a woman finally comes to the door and asks if she wants to come in to play. She never goes to the door herself. She always waits to be asked.

"That little girl was me and I've waited to be asked all my life."

Learning to Write

I have approximately 75 books on writing, on topics ranging from instruction to inspiration. How to write query letters, how to format a manuscript, how to do interviews, travel writing, screenwriting, romance writing, memoir writing, novel writing, science fiction writing, how to get organized, how to make time, how to make $25,000 to $50,000 or more a year as a freelance writer, how to get an agent, how to get published, how writers write, what writers think, and of course, basic how to writes--the list goes on and on. And that's not counting my subscription to Writer's Digest magazine and my yearly purchase of Writer's Market.

You'd think I'd be a successful writer just from looking at my library. How could I read all these books and not be?

The truth is, I haven't read all these books. I probably haven't even read half of them, not all the way through anyway.

But I keep on buying them--and checking them out of the library--as if somehow, just possessing them will turn me into the writer I long to be. And I keep on getting nowhere.

I'm not saying that reading all these books would automatically make me successful. (Read: published.) But they could help to fill the void in my writing life, the one where I don't have a writing teacher or writer's group to give me feedback and encouragement. I haven't taken a writing course since I was in college three years ago and then I only took two of them (both in creative nonfiction). In fact, those are the only writing courses I've ever taken.

It's hard to find writing courses outside of a college setting. Sometimes the local adult education program has some kind of writing course, but I'm not really interested in taking courses taught by writers who are only slightly more successful than I have been. I want a real challenge, like I had in college.

Then again, I'm leery of taking courses at all, or of attending writer's groups. I don't think my ego can take it. Of the two courses I have taken, one was a positive experience and the other was negative. I left with more doubts about myself as a writer than I started with. I was sure that I didn't measure up to many of the others in my class. I couldn't seem to write what I wanted to write or say things the way I thought I wanted to say them. I did learn some things, but looking back, I feel like I need to unlearn some of them. There was this tendency on the part of the teacher to say that creative nonfiction had to look exactly like "this." Maybe it wasn't so much that she was wrong as that I don't do well with rules. They fill my head when I start to write something and I freeze. I've been freezing ever since I graduated.

So I've decided to take a different tack: I'm going to start reading all these books on writing and try to get what I need from them. If I run across one that isn't helpful, I'll lay it aside. If I find one that seems to resonate with me, then I'll milk it for all it's worth.

I'm going to start with Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach. It's a new book (2008) that I just checked out of the library. It's subtitled: "How to Make Memories into Memoirs, Ideas into Essays and Life into Literature." Sounds right up my alley. I've only read the introduction, but so far so good. The author is writing to people just like me, writers who can't seem to write and don't know why. He insists that it is necessary to turn back the clock and become a beginner again, a learner. Somehow I think he's right.

I'm going to give it a try and report on my progress (or lack thereof) in this blog.

Memoirs

Chuck Sambuchino writes this about memoir writing in his blog, Guide to Literary Agents. After reading the advice he and some literary agents had about memoir writing, I couldn't help but apply it to my own life. What makes my life interesting enough to make someone want to pay $25 to read about it? And what would my memoir have as an overall theme?

Good questions.

As the blog suggests, you either have to have had something really unique happen to you or you have to have a fantastic voice in order to get a publisher interested in your memoir. No one wants to read the ramblings of a writer recounting his entire life. He has to emphasize the juicy parts. I've had a lot happen to me in my life, some of it exciting and unusual, a good deal of it boring and pedestrian. How do I determine what's worth writing (and reading) about?

Like most people my life could have many themes: love and hate, spirituality and religion, mental illness, motherhood, marriage, to name just a few. My memoir would be very different depending upon what theme I choose to base it on. How do you reduce a person's life to a theme, like some kind of television show? But that's exactly what you have to do to make your memoir commercial. That may not satisfy the chronicler in you, but if you're serious about becoming published, you have to put your ego aside and look at your life the way a stranger would.

When you write a bio, how do you sum yourself up? When you're getting to know someone, what tidbits do you share with him or her? We tend to cater what we say depending on our audience. So maybe the first question you ask yourself should be: who is your audience? Who do you think would be interested in the story you choose to tell? And then pick those themes or parts of your life that would be the most interesting to them. If I were writing to women of a "certain age," I might want to emphasize my mid-life crises, my multiple marriages, the fourteen-year age difference between me and my husband (he's younger), or what it's like to be a grandmother to a boy after having had four daughters. If I were writing to younger adults, I'd need to pick up on the themes that are universal: self-esteem, leaving home, sexuality, education, career, political involvement, socialization, or relationships with our parents and our peers.

What are your triumphs in life? Your failures and disappointments? What have you done that you want to be remembered for? That you normally wouldn't want anyone to know? What have you always been interested in? Struggled with? Done well? Answering these questions can be key to helping you establish the themes in your life.

But don't be surprised if you still end up with a big, sloppy mess. That's what life is like. The role of the writer is to sift through all the junk and end up with the core truths. If you're writing about your own life, you have to do the same.

My Writer's Block

I have plenty of time (I work at another job, but only part-time), a new laptop, an encouraging and supportive husband (who doesn't expect me to do housework) and a certain amount of faith in my writing ability. So why am I having so much trouble writing?

It occurred to me recently that I'm not having as much trouble as I think I am. But I'm obsessing about how hard it is for me to finish anything, let alone submit it somewhere (which automatically means no publication). And I think the reason I'm obsessing is the same reason I don't feel good about myself and my life in general: my clinical depression and anxiety. Not so much because I still suffer from those two bogeymen of the mind, but because I still act and think as if I do. I haven't revised my behavior and thinking to correspond to the strides I've made in achieving mental health. I'm used to being down on myself, because mood disorders make you feel that way. You can't control how you feel or think because your depression, anxiety or whatever is doing the controlling.

How do I break through the control that depression and anxiety have over me? One technique is to act "as if" I am no longer controlled by them, to step out in faith in myself as a new person. Easier said than done, I know. But imperative if I'm going to get anywhere with my writing.

Writer's Block

Lack of inspiration. Scarcity of ideas. Insecurity. Laziness. No motivation. Fear of approbation or rejection. Disorganization. Unwillingness to work hard. Mistaking being published for being a writer. Paralysis. Perfectionism. Procrastination. Inability to follow through. Low energy. Depression. Anxiety. Trying to write outside your comfort zone. Being impatient. Insufficient time. Lack of faith, in your talent or your efforts.

These are both reasons for and descriptions of the block all writers experience from time to time. Most of them are normal. Some present a unique challenge to the writer trying to overcome his or her inability to write. But the more of these that are on your list, the more severe your writer's block will be.

It's important to identify the true parameters of your block. If you don't know what your weaknesses are, how are you going to compensate for them? What you don't want to do is try to justify them. They are what they are. Some blocks have only one reason and are easily resolved. Most blocks are more complicated than that. And it's not easy to fight writer's block on many fronts at once.

There are two components to writer's block. One is external--no place to write, inappropriate writing utensils, lack of materials and resources, distractions. The other and perhaps more formidable one is internal--insecurity, fear, anxiousness, depression. How do you change the very essence of your mind? You can always buy a new computer--you can't exchange or upgrade your brain. You have to learn to work with what you have.

A Place to Write

Some writers can write anywhere--or so they say. Others need very specific conditions in order to write: favorite music, an inspiring view, easy access to their files, reference materials right at hand, a comfortable chair, just the right height of desk. I haven't yet decided which kind of writer I am. Maybe that's part of my problem.

I've set up offices in my bedroom, the laundry room, the living room and the kitchen. I've had rooms to myself and shared a room with another. Once I turned the entire front room in my apartment into an office. That was probably my favorite. I had plenty of room for my books and filing cabinets as well as tons of desk space. And if was all for me. What a luxury!

I don't need a view. When I'm writing, I'm only thinking about the words, not trees or sunshine or landscapes. Sure, that's nice when I take a break, but I can go to another room for that, and probably should, to really give my mind a chance to rest.

I've often dreamed of having a little writing cabin at our place in Canada. I could write in the large cabin, but there's not enough solitude when I'm there with other people, which I always am. Also, until recently, I didn't have a portable computer (i.e., laptop) and I've gotten used to writing on one. I don't know if such a venue would make it easier to write.

I do have trouble finishing projects. Maybe if I was isolated--no TV, no television, no drop-in visits, I'd actually get something done. Oh, and no Internet, because I spend a lot of time looking things up that way. Of course, I also submit and query by email sometimes, although, to be honest, I don't get very many responses when I use email.

As it is now, I sit on my living room couch with my laptop literally on my lap. My files and books--except for the ones I'm currently using--are upstairs split between two bedrooms. I'd prefer one room like I once had, but I don't have the room right now. Maybe if I ever move from here, that will be on my wish list for my new home.

Distractions

What distracts me from my writing?

1. My grandson, when he visits. He loves his cartoons and I need peace and quiet. Last year I was doing a NaNoWriMo type project only in June instead of November. Because of that I made it very clear that I had to write a certain amount every day. And lo and behold, Will left me alone during that time. Why can't I do that more often?
2. My kids. I always drop everything whenever they need something. Sometimes it's just phone calls, but they can be long ones. I can't tell them I'm writing either.
3. My job. On the days that I work, I rarely write, even though I only work part-time and often don't even go to work until 5 at night. In fact, whenever I have to do anything, like doctor's appointments and errands, I tend to skip writing that day.
4. Surfing the Internet. I like to have the Internet on when I'm writing on the computer, supposedly so I can do research. But I spend more time checking my email and reading various blogs and articles than I do writing.
5. Worrying. About money, about my writing, about marketing my writing, about my kids and grandkid, about my weight, my age and my mortality...the list goes on. If I give too much energy to worrying, I have too little left for writing.
6. Snacking and smoking. These are delaying tactics, things I do to avoid what I should be doing.
7. Reading. I know a certain amount of reading is good for a writer. But it obviously depends upon what you read, and I often read junk. I do this for the same reason that I snack and smoke. I sometimes do all three at the same time.

Notice that I didn't list housework as a distraction. I use my writing as an excuse for not doing any.

Dreams or Delusions?

Ever since I knew I wanted to be a writer, I've dreamed about how famous I would one day be. How people would say, "She's one of the best writers I've ever read!" I even made a mock-up magazine cover once with my photo on it and the caption: "Everything she writes turns to gold." Now that I'm older and feel like time is running out, I've come to see that I was delusional. Even so, I miss the time when I actually believed that my delusions were bona fide dreams.

I thought I could do any kind of writing. I can't. I thought I could repeat my successes (I've had some). I haven't. I thought that someday I'd be famous. I'm not.

I realize that my life isn't over yet, but honestly, how much longer can I hold onto my dreams? And where do dreams stop and delusions begin? I could lower my expectations, but that feels like giving up. I don't want to accept mediocrity. I want to be great. But the more I read of other writers' work, the more discouraged I become. I can't write that well, I think. I used to think: I can do better than that. When did I lose my confidence, and why? Is it just that I've grown up?

Not There Yet

I'm still going through a dry spell--but it's lasted so long, I'm beginning to think that I've just lost "it." I've always wanted to be a writer, always thought I could write, but now I'm not so sure. I can't seem to write about anything of consequence. I have a theory though. It's about my mind. But it's not at all comforting: I think I've talked myself into not using it fully.

I've just come through a pretty traumatic period of my life, so traumatic that I can't bear to be reminded of it. I can't stand the strong and negative emotions certain things evoke. I won't listen to music anymore, which is a pity because I used to really enjoy it. I stopped going to church, something that once was very meaningful for me. Which is exactly the point: I don't want to be reminded of anything that once caused deep feelings. So, how can I possibly write anything that touches anyone if I don't allow myself to be touched?

When I do write something, it's as an artisan, not an artist. I go through the motions, I employ the techniques, I churn out reasonably well-crafted words. But the spirit is missing. I've lost my ability to plumb the depths of my soul. And that makes for bland reading indeed.

I don't know how to break through the walls that I've built in my mind. Maybe when the pain of not being able to write becomes greater than my fear of feeling. It's getting bad, but I'm not there yet. I just hope that someday I will be.

Beware of Writing Teachers

Pat Schneider writes in her book, Writing Alone and With Others, that a good writing teacher will make you want to write and a bad one will make you feel like quitting. (paraphrased) That's a little simplistic, but I think she has something there. It doesn't matter what credentials your prospective teacher has, what matters is does she inspire and encourage you to write?

I took two writing classes when I was in college. Both were on writing creative nonfiction, but one was for beginners and the second was for those who had a little experience. I managed to get into the second one based on work I did in the first. I had a wonderful experience with the first class and the second one almost destroyed me as a writer. I'm still recovering from the damage.

Both teachers are published writers who have written several books, both fiction and nonfiction. Both are nationally known. Both were great teachers. But I reacted completely differently to each of them. At the end of the first class, I was eager to go on, which is why I applied for the second one. Little did I know that it would be my undoing.

The first teacher was a man and the second a woman. I don't know if that had anything to do with it. But I do know that the second teacher caused me to make an emotional investment in her as a person and when I didn't feel like she liked me that well, it felt like she was telling me that I was a bad writer. She had (has) a strong personality, scads of charisma, and a very personal way of relating to her students. She made you feel like she really liked you and cared about you--until something happened and she suddenly became cold. That's when I felt completely undermined as a writer. I was like a little child who thinks she causes her parent to abuse her: If I was a better little girl (writer), she wouldn't abuse me (shut me out).

Not that this teacher was abusive. She was always completely charming. She would sign her emails: Love, ______, and would tell you that she wanted to be your friend. Toward the end of the quarter she mentioned that she liked to get together with her friends, and somehow I got the idea that she might like to go to lunch with me. So I asked her and she accepted and we met a couple of weeks later for lunch. We were having a nice conversation on the surface, but I could sense that her attention was wandering. When we parted, she was fine, but didn't say that she'd like to do it again sometime. That was fine, but when I sent her a friendly email later, she completely ignored it. I waited a while and sent another. I never asked her to lunch or anything. She ignored that one. I began to feel like a stalker. And I finally stopped emailing her; it was just to painful to be rejected.

On one level, this didn't have a thing to do with what she thought of me as a writer. But the rejection of myself as a person translated itself into feeling rejected as a writer. Pat Schneider states that "A good teacher engages you with affection and keeps appropriate boundaries." Perhaps my story is a good example of why that's so important. I wasn't in that class to make a friend; I was there to learn how to write. I ended up torn about myself as a potential friend and writer.

Writer's Block

I've been feeling glimmers of wanting to write again. My novel, essays that I've started, etc. But just glimmers so far. I'm still struggling with self-confidence. The only writing I've been doing are my blogs. It seems like I've been doing less creative writing since I got the laptop. I'm not sure why. It could be coincidental. Maybe sitting on the couch isn't the best place to write. It's true that I'm not using the office anymore. But the desk there is too high, I think. And I like having the laptop with me at all times. Has anyone invented a laptop desk that can be used when you're sitting on a couch or in an armchair? Are there lower desks that you can get for your office? But then that kind of defeats the purpose of a laptop, doesn't it?

I think it does matter where you write, but I can't seem to find my ideal place. My own office is a catastrophe. I keep meaning to straighten it out; I have papers stacked everywhere and my files need reorganizing desperately. But I just can't make myself do it. I guess I don't really like being in there. Maybe a writer needs a place that says to her, “This is your writing place.” Just like they say that you shouldn't do anything else (watch TV, work at your desk) but sleep and have sex in your bedroom, maybe you shouldn't do anything else but write in your writing place. That way when you go there, you associate it with writing and nothing else. Maybe that's why I'm having trouble sitting on the living room couch. But I've done some of my best writing in the past in our laundry room, a corner of our basement bedroom (no windows) or in the aforementioned office. I don't think it matters so much where I write but whether or not I have something to say.

I think that's my real crisis: I don't feel that I have anything to say. I suppose my life has been interesting, but I can't think of how to write about it. I used to think that I had unique insights on things but now my thoughts bore even me. Is it my medication? But how could I be any more productive if I went off it and became a mess emotionally? There has to be a way around this. But all I feel is despair. I need a writing mentor or coach. But is there such a thing? I really don't think that a writing group would do it for me. I don't want to spend my time writing from prompts like the group I've joined (but never manage to attend) does. Although maybe I should. I obviously need something to inspire me. I have all these writing books, but none of them seems to help.

One thing I know I need to do more of is read good books. What I mean is, books by good writers. But then I think I have to emulate them and what I really need to do is find my own voice. That's exactly how I feel: like I've lost my voice. I don't like who I am right now—or what I'm doing—so I don't like my own voice. Or maybe you don't have one when you're not being true to yourself. The only problem is, I don't know what I should be doing. I feel like I need plenty of time to write, but then I don't use it. I waste entire days writing in my journals and looking things that interest me up on the Internet. I bet I could wander all day at the library. I don't want to give up the luxury of time that I now have to do things like that. All my life I've wanted time to write. Now I have plenty of it. So that doesn't appear to be the main problem.

What do I love writing about? What do I feel drawn to? I love writing about my house—about all my houses. Maybe I should pick up on that idea I had of writing about all the parts of a house. But whenever I start to write something like that, I think, who's going to be interested in this? This is too specific to me. Maybe I should stop worrying about who would want to read what I write and just write to please myself.

Immortality

I am absolutely obsessed with journaling. I write almost every day, even when I haven't done any other writing. I write in my journals first. ( They are plural because I keep one on my computer, one that is handwritten and sometimes I write in journals that have specific themes, like my writing journal.) I've been trying to transfer this obsession over to blogging, but I still think that what I write in my blogs should have a point, which my journals rarely do.

A sample from May 20th:

That's weird. I was just watching House Hunters and the woman's name was Joanna and then I switched to What Not to Wear and the woman's name there was also Joanna. Guenther thinks I watch WNTW too much and it's making me paranoid about my looks. I disagree. I've always been paranoid about my looks! It's just that now the issues are different (somewhat); they're more about my aging than my weight. I'm not exactly happy about my weight, but I realize (partly because of WNTW) that I can still look good. And I love my hair now, the color and the style. I also know how to use makeup more skillfully—I even think that it makes me look younger and fresher. But I am sorely in need of plastic surgery, which I will never get. If I had the money, would I? If I had plenty of money I might, but I'd be scared, too. It's just my jawline—damn, damn, damn. Guenther keeps saying that I look great. He's nuts. I may look good for 56 but I want to look 40! Don't want too much, do I??

I include this sample because it's about one of my other obsessions: my concern about my looks, which I write about ad nauseum in my journals. I can't imagine how boring my journals would be to another person. Which brings up another point: What the hell am I going to do with all these journals? I've kept all of them since I was 20 (and I'm sorry I threw away the ones from high school). But I rarely even look at them. Why do I even write them? Somehow I feel as if my life is more real if I write about it. But instead of writing essays or articles based on my experiences, I write primarily in my journals.

I intend to hold onto my journals until I die and I've told my husband that I want him to keep them for my kids. That makes for uncomfortable writing sometimes; it's hard to be completely honest when you know there's a chance that someone else may be reading them later on. I try to be as honest as I can, but I know that I often hold back on my anger or my dislikes, because I don't want to hurt anyone. And I don't reveal everything about myself because I'm afraid I'd be embarrassed. But if no one reads them until I'm dead, what do I care?I guess I'm afraid that my kids will find out things about me that put me in an unflattering light. Maybe that's one reason I don't re-read my journals. I don't want to give in to the urge to edit them or throw them away.

Will anyone else ever read them? Maybe someone in the future will find them mildly interesting. I don't know. It's odd to think that you'd leave behind something about yourself that is so revealing, because you won't have the opportunity to explain anything. People will just think what they're going to think. Again, I'll be dead, so what will I care? I think the main reason I write in my journals--and intend to leave them behind--is so that I will have left a mark on the world. Maybe no one will be interested, maybe only a few will be. But at least my journals will be out there. I think that's better than just an epitaph on a gravestone.

Nothing to Say

It's been 13 days since I last wrote in here. I told myself that I was going to start blogging regularly, but it's easy to let it go by the wayside. And it doesn't help that I think I have to write entire essays instead of just jotting down what's going on in my life and my head on a given day. I'm not usually coherent enough to write a well-crafted piece, so I figure I don't have anything to say.

Well, I don't have anything to say today. Except that I dreamed last night that I got out into the world and started observing people and listening to their conversations. And as I dreamed, I noted to myself that this is what I should be doing to get material for my writing. (I actually dreamed that I was a writer!) I tend to shut myself up inside my house and try to pry something interesting out of my brain without putting anything in it to inspire me. But even when I'm in a group of people, I sit back and watch rather than be the center of attention. So I'm still alone, in a way.

Frankly, I question whether I ever have anything to say. I admire writers like Richard Selzer whose career as a surgeon so beautifully informs what he writes. What could I write that would possibly be of interest to people? No, more than that, what is it about my life that adds texture and depth to what I write?

On the surface, I'm a white married middle-aged mother of four and grandmother of one. I'm sure that's how my co-workers view me. But I've gone through three divorces, married four times, was once married to a minister, am now married to a man fourteen years my junior who is also German, worked at the post office for sixteen years, earned my Bachelor's degree when I was 53, live in the inner city and suffer from chronic depression and anxiety. There's a lot of material right there. But I have a tendency to discount my experiences because they're not as exciting or dramatic as some people's. I figure I have nothing to say that would add to the collective wisdom of humanity.

I need to get over this if I'm to be a writer. No life is inconsequential. If I can see the interesting things about others' lives, why can't I see them in my own? I think it has a lot to do with my lack of self-confidence. If I'm down on myself in general, I'm also going to be down on my writing. It takes a certain amount of ego to be a writer, and my ego has taken a beating. (It was never that strong to begin with.) I need to find what it is about myself that makes me worth knowing if I am ever going to be able to write anything worth reading.

My New Laptop

I just got a new computer, a laptop, and my husband has been knocking himself out trying to get my files off of my old computers (a Thinkpad and an iMac) and onto the new one. He's been using Box.net which has worked fine except for the Mariner files he uploaded from the iMac. This is unfortunate because my "novel" is almost entirely on the iMac. I guess I should have stuck to the Thinkpad. All those files are downloading just fine. I was just trying out the iMac to see if I liked it, but it was so old, it wasn't really a fair representation. At any rate, I'm back with Windows on a laptop.

I really liked my IBM Thinkpad. I bought it used on eBay for $400 and I've been using it for four years. The only problem I had was that the display went out. Possible an easy fix, but I never wanted to spend the money just to have it checked out. So I hooked up a monitor to the laptop, opened it and slid the display part under the top of a computer desk with the laptop on the keyboard shelf. Sort of a glorified keyboard, I guess. But I loved the feel of the keyboard and it was always reliable. It just ran out of memory. I couldn't fit much more on it and when I surfed the Internet it was really slow.

Now I have a Lenovo laptop and I love it. I don't know all its stats, but it runs beautifully and it's really fast. And of course the fact that I can take it anywhere is an added plus. I've been spending all my computer time on the sofa. Not having to be shut up in my office (so-called) has made it easier to spend more time writing. And when I get bored with television, I can still sit with my husband in the evenings and surf the Net or do some writing.

That might be a drawback. It's tempting to spend all my time on the computer now that I can settle in anywhere. And I'm not close to my files. But this way, I'm stripped down to just writing, not messing with stuff on my desk. I've been writing blogs like crazy, both for Miteypen and for Femagination. I've been organizing my files on this one computer (I was scattered over three!), collecting all my "works-in-progress" in one folder on my desktop, trying to determine which ones to go on and finish. And a side benefit is that I've been snacking less because my hands are on the keyboard more than they're in the cupboard!

I'm looking forward to taking my new laptop out in public. (Did I mention that it has Wi-fi?) I've always envied people who have been able to take their laptops to the local coffee shops. Now I can join them. I may only be surfing the Internet, but it will give me a chance to get out of the house and do a little people-watching at the same time. Writers do need to get out there once in a while.

Why did my husband buy me a laptop? It wasn't for a special occasion, which puzzled me. But then he said that he felt a writer needed to have the right equipment. He was right.

My Giveaway

Read it here: "Piece of Mind."

Giving Away Our Art

Today I "gave away" a story of mine to a website. It's not even one that showcases creative writing. It was just a "Share Your Story" set-up. Most of the stories there were simply things like "I have been depressed for 20 years" and "I have tried X (medication) and it doesn't work for me." Mine is an essay I wrote for a contest. I was one of seven finalists (I've been telling myself that surely there were more than seven entrants!). But I realized as I submitted the story that my writing is not about being published traditionally but about getting my stories out there in the hopes that what I've written can help someone else. Not only that, but just because most of the other stories are more like notes, doesn't mean that they aren't real writing. The writers may not consider what they wrote to be "creative writing." But anything that we create is art, and what is art but self-expression?

I would gladly write for free--at least for awhile. I haven't developed the commercial mindset. As long as my writing is published, I'm happy. The money is just a form of validation and the way that this society measures success. By that standard I am only remotely successful. I have made exactly $1400 in all the years that I've been writing. But one of my proudest accomplishments was the publishing of "Grief Garden" (see archives, 12/19/05) in an anthology called From Eulogy To Joy. I'm proud not only of the piece, but because of the venue in which it was published. I felt honored to be included in an anthology about how people have dealt with the loss of a loved one. I have no idea how many people have read my essay, or what they thought of it, but I know it's there, available to anyone who picks up the book.

What does it really matter if we're paid for our art? Oh, sure, we'd love to be able to make a living doing what we love. For one thing, then we'd have more time to do it. But I'm going to write anyway. And a lot of what happens to me at my "day job" informs what I write. I'd miss out on that input if I didn't do anything else but produce my art.

Of course, being paid is just one way to be recognized. I doubt that any of us would complain if we were mentioned in a public venue as one of this century's greatest writers, albeit an unpaid one. Maybe it would be better if no one was ever paid for his or her art. Then we could be sure that what was created was done for love of the art itself. I know I can tell a difference in my writing when I'm trying to write for publication and writing "for myself." I usually don't care for the former. I don't always care for the latter either, but at least I'm free from anxiety when I'm writing. Anxiety makes it difficult for me to be creative. I do better in an atmosphere of complete self-acceptance. When I feel that I have a God-given right to write.

Of course, with that right comes responsibility. (That's what "they" always say.) I have the responsibility to write as well as I can, to not put out any junk, at least not in my final versions. If God gave me the talent--and I believe that He did--then He intends for me to share it with the world, whether I get paid for it or not. He didn't say, "Don't feed the poor unless you get paid to do so." He said, simply, "Feed the poor. Give away the shirt on your back--don't sell it to the poor man who needs one. Treat others the way you want to be treated."

What if art were never shared freely? Sometimes I think that's a danger in this society when admissions to art exhibits, concerts, and plays are more than the average family spends in a week for groceries. (Or longer.) But when I open my eyes, I see that art is all around us, free for the experiencing. It's in the clothes we wear, the way we decorate our homes, the gardens we share with the neighborhood, even in the meals we cook. It most certainly is in nature. But I also see it in architecture and other man-made things. The only difference between these kinds of art and the kind the artist produces is that the artist is trying to reproduce in some way and interpret the meaning of the art in ordinary things.

I'm not saying that it isn't a worthy goal to be paid for our art. I just know that worrying about that stands in the way of my free self-expression. Art is to be shared or it is only the creator's possession. It may cost money to produce, and even to share, but being paid should never be the main motivation. That robs the artist of his joy.