The Memoir That Loved Me

If you are a writer who’s been so entwined with a book, your entire life has been put on hold, you’ll understand why I had to set boundaries with my manuscript before returning to a quasi-normal lifestyle where I could reclaim my sanity. Two months ago, I completed writing the epilogue of my memoir, a project that took years of my life. Years of research, interviews, writing, revising, sharing, revising, reconstructing. The amount of work demanded to put memories of a lifetime into a meaningful form was overwhelming.

I’ve been a writer and writing teacher for many years, so I came into the project with fingers poised to click away on the keyboard. I was no stranger to the idea that writing is a form of healing and had done a fair amount of research on the writing processes used by authors to compose personal missives, with a focus on women writers. The volume of work required by the book did not surprise me. Nor did it really intimidate me.

What I did discover, and this was not until I was nearly finished with the final draft, was that somewhere in the midst of composing, as I sat in my cozy haven on the third floor of my house, trying to metabolize my life experiences, I fell deeply in love with my book and as I neared the end, I didn’t want to give it up. I had fallen over the edge.

It began when I’d sneak out of the dining room after a meal with my husband, climb the stairs and enter into passionate revelry with the pages. I’d pick up the conversation I’d been having with the manuscript and enter into the space created by our relationship. Gradually, I began to spend most of my waking hours interacting with the book, much like one would spend with a new lover, talking, arguing, breaking up and making up.

As I neared the end of the work, I resisted submitting it to a publisher, not because I feared rejection, although of course that was an issue. I held onto the story because I loved it. The plot had come to life, wrapping its tiny tendrils (chapters) around my heart. The characters, almost all of them, family and close friends, began to speak to me in dreams, in hazy conversations and quasi-arguments. If I posed a question, the book drew me back into a deeper discussion, challenging me to consider other options for interpreting my life. The words seemed to jump off the page, calling to me, begging me to “come and play.”

I adored the setting in which I based the story—the expansive desert of West Texas where I was born, the plains of Spain, where I lived for a while as a young girl, and the tree-filled forest surrounding my home in Pennsylvania. I’d spent hours creating new ways to bring each one to life on the page, painting images with sentences and paragraphs resulting in what became a kind of memorial to the earth.

So intrigued was I by the setting where these stories unfolded, that I became convinced the land held memories I had been unable to recall. The trees, the sand, the sky; all had witnessed the growth of my family for generations and very likely knew more about them than did I.

Here’s the thing: My story blossomed into a real-life entity, one with the power to pull me back onto the pages to write, play, revise, and argue until our love grew as deep the book wanted it to be. It challenged me to reflect more, to tell events in a new way, to pose more questions, to consider new interpretations of events.

Without my realizing it, the story took on a leadership role, insisting on telling itself. Somewhere over the years, the writing process changed for me as the story demanded equal status. And, although when I first began to write the book, I identified myself as a storyteller, in the process of writing, I had to learn to step out of the way and make room for the tale to unfold. I had to learn to stand by as a servant might, to honor it, as though it were a wise sage. I was transformed by this, turned into a story carrier. I became the conduit for the story that wanted to be told.

Finally, as I wrote the last lines in the final chapter of the memoir, I slowly returned to my senses. It was time to draw some boundaries and re-claim my life. One evening, I forced myself to sit at the computer, close the file, and send it off to the publisher. I released myself from the relationship I’d been having, telling myself it was over. I have to admit that I did ask for one more chance to revise one chapter, but only one.

The next morning, I showed up at the breakfast table with my husband, something I had not done for months. As we sat drinking coffee, chatting about the weather, grocery shopping, and other things normal adults discuss, I felt a pull from another part of my house. It was the book again. I told myself I couldn’t go back. It was over between us. But truth be told, my heart was still upstairs on the third floor, where I knew my story might be waiting, anticipating my return for one more secret session of play. I took a deep breath and whispered to myself, “Farewell, my love.”