This weekend I attended a writing workshop in Portland. I stuck out like a pink-tipped, sore thumb, but not really in a bad way. I was a little bit younger than the other writers (the bulk were in the 35-45 range), and since of course I look and act even younger than I am, I think I confused everyone a bit. At one point, the workshop leader (best-selling memoirist Jennifer Lauck) grouped me into her 7-year-old son's generation, despite the fact that I'm in my early 30s.
Despite my alieness, I got a lot from the workshop. Friday night we each were assigned a topic to write two pages about for the next morning. I'm not completely sure how topics were chosen — some of them were based on readings we'd already done, some of them seemed random, and some of them (like mine) were oddly prescient. My assignment was to write two pages about my mother.
Gulp. Keep in mind that with my grandmother's death last week, mother-daughter dynamics are in full effect.
As those of you who read this site know, my writing is mostly light and entertaining. And the first half of the piece was exactly that. The second half got into a small conflict my mother and I had over my being present at my grandmother's deathbed, and then in the closing paragraphs I went for the emotional sucker-punches, aiming straight for the jugular and letting loose with such well-worn literary conceits as repeating the saddest parts for full effect.
I got mildly choked up while writing the piece, but steeled myself and vowed to keep my shit together when presenting during the workshop. I am not a weeper!
But of course, when my turn rolled around, there I was not just crying — but SOBBING. I was in good company (there was actually a box of tissues passed from reader to reader), but I was still somewhat mortified with myself. Me! Sobbing! Other people are allowed to sob during their readings but I am a pillar of emotional fortitude, and I am not accustomed to blubbering over my own writing. I laugh at myself a lot; but cry over myself almost never.
The piece was well-received and I decided that I would pass it on to my mom. It was an homage of sorts to her and my relationship, our shared quirks and communications styles. More than anything, it was about how much I loved her, and come on: what mother doesn't want to be the star of the I Love You! show?
Perhaps my timing was off, what with my grandmother's funeral and all, but my homage had exactly the opposite effect that I'd intended. My mother called me last night reporting that she'd read the piece and didn't like the person it described (her!) and was sort of mortified and felt very hurt and cried a bunch. Gulp.
I guess it's a little bit hard being turned into a character in someone else's story, isn't it?
I explained my intentions with the piece and she understood and it was all ok, but as I closed the conversation I reminded her, "You know, mom, that was just a two-page story. I'm writing a whole book right now …"
"But the book's not about me," she said. Erm, have you heard many wedding stories that don't include the mother of the bride?
This brings up some interesting issues for me … not just with my mother, but with untold numbers of people. Andreas refuses to read any of my book drafts, arguing that he doesn't want to impede my creative process — even when I beg him for feedback, he declines. He may regret this decision.
I use friends and family members to comedic effect through-out my book. Are these people going to hate me? Am I going to simultaneously celebrate the release of my first book while grieving over the fact that my friends have disowned me and that my in-laws won't invite me home for Christmas? For godsake, what will Uncle Howie say? (That will make more sense after you read the book.)
I'm caught between refusal to change my writing out of fear and, well, wanting to avoid making my mother cry.
Also, for those who are curious, you can read the piece I wrote for my mother by clicking below.
Continue reading "The memoirist's curse" →
