Memoir writing

A chill winter wind is hanging around today and with the grey overcast temperatures are not conducive to a walk.  Nope it is the kind of weather that makes me retreat inside.  It also makes me sleepy.  But at least it is better than a year ago when we had snow on this day, so I saw in my FB reminder photo today.  So I will not complain too much.  I have enough to keep me busy inside.  

 I started blogging years ago at the urging of a few dear friends and relatives who enjoyed my letters and my writings and felt I had a gift, something to say, something to share.  They have all since passed on and joined my angel tribe.  I lost my primary blog audience but I kept at it as  a pass time outlet, to record things about the travels we were on, sometimes to record something I did not want to forget about and often especially lately in my grief, I write to vent.  This is a safe enough space to me because it is not read and certainly not read by  a particular person who has pushed my buttons.  For a time there were a couple groups I wrote with and enjoyed but they too finally went by the wayside, one was Sepia Saturday posts and there I share a lot about my ancestors.  It helped me  in my genealogical research too.  

For a time I stepped fully away from blogging here and chose Facebook as primary communication.  It still is and a preferred way that I can keep in touch with so may all over the country at the same time.  But with Jerry's passing I migrate back here sometimes to write.  It serves as akind of journal for me.  

I used to think that someday I might write my memoir.  So when I saw the following by author Sue Monk Kidd on Facebook today I decided to copy it here to preserve the thoughts.  

Sue Monk Kidd

 For the woman I overheard say she wants to write a memoir, but can’t help feeling it’s self-indulgent…

May I go on record here. Writing memoir is gloriously self-indulgent and I’m perfectly okay with that. Women have been told so many times to be selfless that it can actually feel uncomfortable when we attempt to search for one.

When I write memoir, I’m undoubtedly in search of wholeness. Maybe I’m trying to resolve something, heal a wound, redeem some part of myself that has been orphaned or lost, or give a voice to what has been silenced. Maybe I’m trying to step into my truth. Maybe I’m trying to reveal myself to myself.

But here’s something I didn’t expect. Writing memoir can also be gloriously other-indulgent. The process not only takes me into myself, it frees me from myself. When I manage to distill my experience into meaning and integrate that meaning into my life through the creation of a narrative, I make it possible to move on without all the preoccupation and unconscious pull of the experience. It’s the unexamined experience that wreaks the most havoc in my life and in my relationships.

The surprise is always this. The deeper we delve into our own lives, the more likely we are to tap into a universal experience. We find the portal to everyone.