Thank You For Following and Supporting My Writing
It means the world to me.
Greetings, dear reader.
Thank you so much for being a part of this newsletter and supporting my writing efforts by subscribing, following, and (for some) even financially backing this endeavor. Your belief in my writing has carried me through some challenging times of late, and your generosity means the world to me. Thank you for taking this journey with me.
I’m still figuring out the best excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, to share with paid readers, but for now, I’d like to give you all an update.
A beautiful mess…
The work, right now, feels like an utter mess.
As a writing coach and a published author, I know this is par for the course…normal...and to be expected. I know this mess is necessary. I know there’s no way around it. I know it won’t always feel this way.
And yet…
The memoir writing path is often fraught with twists and turns and potholes — and even an occasional jump-scare. Let me explain.
The other day, I was about to share a scene with one of my critique groups. I’d written the short piece three or four years ago, so I didn’t give much thought to dusting it off and sharing it with some new readers, but I wish I had.
As I began to read, a lump formed in my throat — the kind that sends my heart racing and my eyes watering. It’s no secret that I’m a big-time crier, and at 55, I’m getting closer and closer to accepting that I’ll always be this way. I was mid-sentence as my eyes welled up, and no way of turning back. About to cry, I paused to grab a tissue from the box I always keep within reach, then offered a quick apology to my wide-eyed group. As I took a deep breath and dabbed my eyes, I realized how often my writing leads me to these awkward-yet-powerful moments of discomfort, vulnerability, and slight embarrassment. Why, you may wonder, would anyone CHOOSE to do this?
For me, writing this memoir is not a choice. Rather, it’s my way of processing a lifetime of events — and not every one of them was traumatic or negative. Writing this memoir is my catharsis. It’s a celebration. It’s a record of growth and healing. It’s empowerment. It is my survival.
Where the mess began…
When I decided to become a full-time writer 15 years ago, writing a memoir was my dream. I wanted to write about the depression that I (and so many people I knew and loved) managed but was afraid to speak about. I wanted to call the book Why Are We Whispering? but I didn’t have a clue how to navigate the publishing process.
Flash forward: I’m now 55 years old, a writing coach and literary agent, a published author of a mid-20th century biography, and I run a cooperative workspace for women writers. I’ve worked hard learning about myself and figuring a lot of things out, and it’s time to turn to my memoir.
It’s been a daunting effort so far, but after studying the research about the benefits of writing, I’m less inclined to feel doubt about what I’m doing, particularly when I get pushback from others to keep certain things quiet. While I use letters, words, and my voice as tools, my most important instrument in this process is the truth. I’m working through tough emotions and finding deep meaning from my experiences.
What things look like now…
Right now, I’m curled up in bed, sensing what may be the beginning of a cold settling into my bones. With just four days before Thanksgiving, I’m not happy about this mild headache or the nagging pressure in my sinuses. Will this turn into something bigger? Or will it just fade away?
Lately, I’ve been asking those same two questions about my memoir.
Will these stacks of notecards turn into something bigger? Will all the half-baked fragments of ideas in my Notes app eventually work into an arc, a cadence, a page-turning rhythm? Will I keep at it, pushing through the hard, uncomfortable, embarrassing, uncertain, messiness of this process? Or will I just let this project fade away?
This is when I stop and listen to my gut.
Of course I’ll keep going.
I’ll keep showing up.
I’ll keep sharing my stories and my tears and my scars and my humanity.
The alternative — keeping things locked down — isn’t an option for me. It may be for others, but not for me. It’s physically and emotionally impossible. Writing is how I naturally process and connect with others. On some days, the words come out like a hot, burning mess, if they come out at all. Other times, writing feels automatic, like a deep and cleansing stretch, like a peaceful yawn, like a laugh from the belly, like breathing.
There were times growing up when my sweet grandmother, Edna, used to laugh and call me “earthy” — a kind term she used instead of “cringey” or even “crass”. Oh Chrissy, you’re so earthy! she’d say without a hint of shame or judgement. I was being me, and she accepted who I was. I felt heard and safe and true. We shared an incredible bond, and I had the privilege of spending the last years — and days — of her life by her side.
There are so many people I love and cherish and respect — some of whom are far less tolerant of (or comfortable with) my cringe. The pleaser in me has always dreaded (and feared) making others uncomfortable, and I’ve spent untold hours thinking of ways to soften my writing for them, to protect their hearts, and to reframe some of my more “earthy” experiences so as not to upset or alarm or annoy.
And yet, when I coach memoir clients, I’m very direct:
“While drafting, you only need to write your truth. Don’t adjust things yet to accommodate others. Write what happened, write what you felt, and write from your heart. Your draft isn’t your finished book, so draft your story truthfully, without fear of judgement. There is healing in this process. Later, we’ll do the work of editing.
Right now, while drafting, your job is to document your story.”
As I consider my own memoir-in-progress — and all the scenes written, notes jotted, scribbles made, memories remembered, voice memos recorded, story arcs considered, research articles devoured, interviews scheduled, and file folders piled up on my desk — I take in this massive, beautiful, cringey mess, and I remind myself that this is how writing works…and this is how life works. We can look at all of it as toiling and taking forever and better left unsaid, or we can choose to see our progress. We have a choice. We are not trapped under the secrets we’ve been told to keep unless we let it be so.
To be sure, the time spent working on a big writing project — especially a book — is a season of uncertainty, during which time we often wonder if and how we’ll ever finish, and how others will receive our words. This can be the most difficult part of the journey, something that I believe we need to talk about more. For those of us who write, the words and motivation may sometimes escape us, but they eventually come back to us, sometimes surging with such force that our fingers can’t keep up. At the core of writers’ block, I believe, is fear of the unknown, including how others will respond to our words.
Where stillness comes in…
And so, as I continue to whittle and draft my memoir, trying (often desperately) to make sense of the disparate fragments and bits, I’m learning to make space for stillness.
In response to all the memories and reflections and concerns I’m managing while drafting, I’m increasingly aware of how important it is to slow down, to let myself feel all the feelings, and to judge myself less about my visceral need to process and express my experiences through writing. My approach is not for everyone, and that’s okay. My approach may even make others uncomfortable, and that’s okay, too.
After I wept while reading that passage to my writing group earlier this week, the other writers sat silent for a few moments.
Then, one writer said, “This book is an invitation. It’ll inspire readers to reconsider how they think about many things.” I was grateful that she saw my intentions.
“You might want to soften things a bit,” another writer added, suggesting that it might be hard for some readers to hear they need to open their eyes about certain subjects.
In that moment, I pictured my sweet Nana and what it looked like to have an open heart. I pictured her leaning forward whenever I’d introduce new (and sometimes unfamiliar) subjects. I pictured her eyes, and how they were filled with curiosity rather than defensiveness. I heard her voice in my mind: Oh Christine! Tell me more, Dolly…
I’ve come to understand that the best writing has the power to change the world or save a life — and I hope to achieve both things by writing this memoir. I take my work seriously, and I’m not rushing the process.
Thank you for following me on this journey. I appreciate knowing that you’re here. You motivate me to keep pushing when it feels murky, and I look forward to sharing early passages with you soon.
Sincerely,
Christine
P.S. If you’re a free subscriber (THANK YOU!), you’ll continue to receive this newsletter at no cost. If you’ve been considering upgrading to a paid subscription, the current monthly rate ($ ) and the yearly rate ($ ) will
So beautiful and well said. I've often wondered why I'm spending so much time and effort on my memoir... especially on the days I want to cry out of sheer frustration because it is nowhere near being finished. But then I think about what the last year and a half of working on my memoir has brought me -- I've written all the hard parts down. I've experienced it over and over in my edits and in reading it in class. One day, I woke up and was like, Hey... these past experiences aren't that scary anymore.
I've learned SO much about structure and prose and craft. I've connected with AMAZZZZZING people like you who are now in my circle and in my heart.
I've grown so much closer to my parents too, because I now ask them questions about their lives too, as it is relevant for my memoir.
The list goes on and on. I am grateful to that writing has evolved into what it has... and while I'm still nowhere close to being finished with my manuscript, that's okay. :D
I needed to read this! My aunt's best friend suggested to me that I write a book about my 32 years having epilepsy...I was so skeptical and wasn't sure how people would feel about hearing what all I have been through during these times...I must admit that I was a little scared too, but reading that your memoir is a record of growth and healing and also empowerment made me realize that writing my story could also be a way for me to grow as well...thank you!!!