Writing the Nightmares

This morning I awakened at four, as is not uncommon for me. I rolled over and thought happy thoughts, took a few deep belly breathes and fell back asleep, only to reawaken two hours later with a vivid nightmare shaking me by the shoulders.

Writing the Nightmares

When I attended The Magic of Memoir conference in Oakland CA two weeks ago, I was witness to a lot of amazing stories told by brave, wounded, survivor writers. It made me realize that writers with those kinds of memories are more likely to write about them—in memoir or as the basis for fiction—than the fortunate souls who leaned back and pumped their swings higher and higher into blue skies and fluffy white clouds.

Last night I was reading one such story and it combined with my personal memories to produce this morning’s nightmare in full living color. (I don’t often dream in color.)

The content is not so important. I wanted to forget it quickly—but I haven’t. I could tell you about the multiple layers of the dream—but I won’t.

Instead I’d rather tell you about where my mind wandered after that.

I clicked open the piece that I’m fine-tuning for The Lit(erature) Lounge storytelling event next Sunday at the Open Space for Arts and Community on Vashon Island, WA. It’s partly about my grandmother Mémère. My chain of thought this morning went something like this. Not the writing piece, just the musing. I’ve left out the punctuation. Ha. Too many apostrophes.

“Mémère. French.

Memoir. It sounds French, but it isn’t spelled French. We spell armoire with the e, so why not memoir with the e? If it were, we’d be spelling it memoire. Our memories. Another inconsistency of the English language.

Memoire of Mémère.

Mémoire. Like armoire. An armoire is a chest. And isn’t a memoir like a chest? A chest of memories?

Except that armoires were originally used to store weapons. Memoire then is not so far-fetched, since doesn’t a memoir-née-memoire also store weapons?”

Writing the Nightmares

As I read the memoir last night, I thought of the woman who wrote it, who lives here on this island. Another survivor walking around with a smile on her face in the midst of all these other survivors walking around with smiles on their faces.

Because we all survive something.

It might not be the stuff of memoirs, but it’s another layer that has made us who we are. If we’re lucky—and we can make our own luck—we get to put it behind us and let the good days, the now days, the tomorrow days, outshine the nightmares.

Once we have finished writing the nightmares, we’ll be on the other side, ready to pump our swings higher and higher into the blue skies and fluffy clouds.

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The Value of Writer Critique Groups

The value of writer critique groups was brought home to me this week.

I finally located a Memoir-specific critique group and joined their Write & Share meet-up on Wednesday at the Greenwood branch of the Seattle Public Library.

Frankly, I arrived a little shell-shocked.

Riding the ferry is always relaxing. Seagulls and sea spray off the bow, and I, optimistic as always for the very slight chance of seeing otters or orcas. Maybe just sipping my coffee and reading a few pages of a book that I’ve brought along.

But battling the morning commuter traffic for over an hour was a shock to my country girl chill.

I was beginning to doubt my decision. I told myself that I’d participate in this meeting but probably wouldn’t return because the wild drive might be just too much.

A little backstory. The Memoir group has 63 members and has been meeting for two years. They have two meetings per week, and in order to keep the critiques productive, a maximum of five members—first come, first served—are allowed to sign up for any one meeting.

The meet-up schedule is writing from ten to noon, followed by an hour of reading and critiquing. It works because most members have other jobs and responsibilities so many aren’t available for meetings on a regular basis.

The Value of Writer Critique Groups

the value of writer critique groupsMy previous critique group experience was two years ago. We met in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and I was a member of that group for almost two years. Since then, I’ve had writer friends and reader friends critique chapters here and there, but nothing in a live, small group setting where a discussion can take place.

I’ve benefited from their friendly but professional feedback, but I recently found myself stuck in the “muddy middle”, as the middle of a manuscript is often called when you get bogged down with uncertainty about your direction.

So here I was, entering a new-to-me library at Storytime with a dozen strollers in the hall and gurgling babies everywhere. Sweet.

I saw two likely members of the Memoir group seated at a table tapping away. They were together, but they weren’t, somehow, “together”, and each was absorbed in working.

I took a chance and asked if they were the writers’ group. They were.

Introducing myself, in that brief moment, I knew that this was going to work out fine. I found a spot for myself and tried to write.

Couldn’t concentrate. No matter.

I had come prepared with printed copies of a piece for Write & Share so I wasn’t under stress to produce something new on the spot.

At noon, we moved into a reserved study room, everyone introduced themselves, and a productive session of reading and critiquing began.

Most of all, I appreciated the reading and critique of the other writers’ work. So much of what was said about their chapters could apply to mine. Structural reminders, scene notes, characterization, pacing, and so on. As a result, I was able to learn from far more than just a critique of my two double-spaced pages.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to be with others who are walking the same path. I think that one doesn’t choose writing. Writing chooses you. Every writer I’ve ever met agrees with one thing: we can’t stop writing.

The pages I had chosen to share were a memoir chapter that I’m planning to read at an Open Mike in Oakland CA next weekend during The Magic of Memoir conference. It was great to receive feedback confirming what I had selected.

They suggested a couple of tweeks that I hadn’t noticed and gladly accepted. We try very hard to look for flaws in our work with an open mind but oftentimes we miss obvious places where a better word might be swapped in or something that we take for granted might need clarifying.

One of the writers had questions about changes he was considering for the beginning of his manuscript. I could identify with that—I’ve changed the opening chapter of my memoir three times this year!

The group said, “No! Don’t change it.” And that was that. Within reason, we trust another writer’s opinion, especially when they explain why something does or doesn’t work.

I can see that I’m going to brave the traffic. Certainly not weekly. Not even bi-weekly. I think I can safely commit to every third week. It’ll keep me on track.

Besides, I want to know which of my opening chapters is the one that works.

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New Yorker Envy

I refer to New Yorker subscription envy. Not New Yorker resident envy.

Sure, it would be fun to live in NYC—maybe for a month or a semester. (It’s been decades, but maybe once again I’ll find myself with a syllabus.)

I see myself hitting up the museums I’ve not gotten around to. The Cloisters, for example.

The museums I’ve not gotten to the finish of. The top of the Guggenheim ramp, e.g.

And I would take the bus to museums that were closed on the day that I visited. The Whitney.

When I needed a break, I would sit on the stairs at the Metropolitan and eat a hot dog with sauerkraut while watching the tourists pass by on the Double Decker Bus. This is the only place where I eat hot dogs with sauerkraut. I’ll enjoy the hot dog as much as the martinis and the view of Central Park from the Met’s Roof Garden Cafe. Martinis make me tipsy. Very. Is that why I usually stick to wine? I think I’m now old enough to let my guard down.

Every night I would take a cab to Broadway and see a show, since I have never seen a Broadway show. Broadway cast shows on tour, yes. Actual Broadway cast, no. Yes, I have Broadway envy, too.

And when I missed rolling around in the grass, I would head to Central Park  with a blanket and a thorough spraying with DEET for a total immersion in their microcosm of nature, placed as it is like an open terrarium in the midst of Lego block skyscrapers.

I digress.

I love The New Yorker. I envy a friend’s subscription. The issues are stacked on her coffee table when I visit. I put down my glass of wine and turn to the cartoon. Why can’t I be so witty as that?

I read a paragraph or two, but then my friend has returned to her place across from me on one of her delightfully unique and artistic chairs. Her taste is impeccable.

She eyes The New Yorker in my hand and admits that she has fallen behind.

I, who have just read a wonderful fantasy of reading the stack of New Yorkers in a tropical location, pick up my iPhone and send her the link.

“Estás sola?” I’d been asked, at the airport, and on the bus, and when I ordered my dinner later at the open-air restaurant. Are you alone? I liked the way the word sounded when put to me in Spanish, like a woman’s name fashioned from the English word ‘soul.’”

I get that a lot, too. Enjoy.

A BIKINI, A TOOTHBRUSH, AND 44 ISSUES OF THE NEW YORKER

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