About Me

memoirs

I didn't start writing until I was forty-seven. I had always wanted to write but thought you needed a degree, or membership in a club nobody had asked me to join. I thought God had to touch you on the forehead, I thought you needed to have something specific to say, something important and I thought you needed all that laid out from the git-go. It was a long time before I realized that you don't have to start right, you just have to start. You have to allow yourself the freedom to get it wrong before you get it right. Like life.

I've written nothing but memoir for years now in spite of a poor memory. I can remember moments, and scenes, but not what happened when or what came after. Most of my memories are free-standing. Even if I could remember everything in its proper sequence, there's a lot of life that's interesting to live but not so interesting to write about, let alone read. And frankly, I don't even believe in chronology. Time is unpredictable. It contracts, shoots forward (or back), it dawdles, bunches up, stops still, and then suddenly we're twenty years down the road. Whole decades evaporate. For me connecting the dots is not as absorbing as the dots themselves. I'm more curious about why certain memories stand out. Memoir is not about remembering everything—it's about what you remember, and then figuring out why. Writing memoir is a way to figure out how we got here from there. Memoir is about clarity, not catharsis. The older I get, the more important clarity becomes.



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My Journals (8)

June 2009

A couple of years ago my sister Judy and I were each given a box of truffles. The tiny print said two pieces contained 310 calories and there were six pieces in each box. We were sitting on the bus headed down Broadway, quietly doing our calculations.: Judy was dividing by two and I was multiplying by three. When she realized what I was doing a look came over her face that is hard to describe. “I lost all hope for you,” she says now. The difference between us could not have been more clearly defined than in that moment. 


     There are people who can eat one piece of chocolate, one piece of cake, drink one glass of wine. There are people who can smoke one cigarette a day. And then there are people for whom one of anything is not even an option.


     What about the differences in your own family? Your own style of parenting, friendship, ways of greeting the day? I grind my own beans to make my coffee in the morning, but my late husband stuck to instant. I would try again and again to convert him--"Just try it," I'd say, and he'd oblige, pronounce it delicious,m and go back to spooning his teaspoon of whatever it was into his mug and pouring the boiling water on top. I never understood it. But we like what we like, prefer what we prefer, and I think habit has a role to play here. I can't drink out of a coffee mug, I like thin china, but he loved his mugs.


     I don't understand the kind of restraint my sister can exercise (and here I want to add that I always wanted to name a dog Restraint, so I could go out and exercise it) but I wish I had a little of what she's got going.

 

Assignment:

  • Write two pages when a difference between you and somebody else became strikingly clear.
  • Write two pages that contain memories of chocolate.

 

Added: July 1, 2009
Views: 9 | Comments: 1 | Bookmarks: 0
snuzcook says:

Hi Abigail,
I would love a piece of sand for my oyster shell! Translation--what's our assignment for June/July? Itching to get going, but not wanting to create a tangent.
Snuz
Posted: June 20, 2009 12:04AM EDT

I did not know how to answer the question posed when I read it this morning -- if I could come back as a ghost, where would it be, and why?

I can answer it now that I'm in from a run to my neighborhood grocery story.

I spotted a girl -- she could not have been more than twelve years old -- wearing a T-shirt that read, "I'm the kind of girl everybody has warned you about."

(Who would let their child out of the house in such? Jailbait, I tell you ....)

... then, in the meat aisle, of all places, was a guy in his early twenties, I'd guess, a T-shirt that read, "Want Eight?"

Puhleeze. We don't need such mental images ...

... If I could come back as a ghost, it would be in a dressing room, or at a bin where someone is rifling through a stack of T-shirts, on the verge of making a dreadful mistake, or sitting next to them at some online clothing cyber-outpost, and my mission in the afterlife would be to avert such decisions
Posted: June 6, 2009 5:13PM EDT

this is great--make it twice as long and see what happens. thank you for this terrific response
Posted: June 6, 2009 10:48PM EDT
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