The Memoirist Reports
When I can't stand it any more, I turn to the DVD of the West Wing series ... good escapism with lovely, charming characters, a few total dorks, a lot of all-too-timely political nonsense, and a president I would still love to see actually installed in the actual White House. One other thing it gives me, though, is that each episode ends just slightly up in the air ... so I'm left with a vaguely uneasy desire to move forward.
And thence straight back into the memoir.
Another 5000 words last week, and more in progress in answer to fellow-students' comments. "We want to know more about your inner experience," one writes, "you've managed to leave yourself almost entirely out of this scene." Okay, that generates three pages of interior monologue to go with two pages of tightly written 'he said / she said'. It's not a finished piece yet, but now more of the raw material is out on the table where I can see it.
"You've mentioned your Mom in almost every page, but she never speaks and we don't see her doing anything. Why would you tell your Dad about this or that but not your Mom? What was going on with your Mom just then?" is the general thrust of the comments from three other classmates. A couple of hours later I have about five pages of a ten-page piece about what my Mom was like when I was in high school.
And I also see why I'm not writing much about her.
First, she lived to be 89, and the section of memoir I'm in deals with the years when she was 50-55 or so. Those were the last years of my Dad's life, so they're the ones I remember best of him, but I have lots more of a relationship with her after I moved out.
Mostly, though, I didn't much like her when I was in high school. I was angry with both of them a lot, as teens are, but I cared about his approval (which was hard to get) and was aware of her double-messages (which I hated). Dad wanted me to grow up to be happy, and had lots of ideas on how that could be managed -- some even useful ideas. Mom wanted me to avoid growing up unhappy ... and the important difference was that it often meant she would acquiesce on some idea until I actually started to do it, and then suddenly decide I shouldn't. My adolescence contained far too much tension between "I have to" and "I can't," and not nearly enough freedom to experiment. And a lot of that was because of her.
I didn't like the way she spoke to me in those years -- all eliptical Victorian euphemism, followed up with major Parental Disappointment when I didn't take the hint. I didn't like the way she shrieked at me in those years either -- whether she was angry at me or at someone else in the family, sooner or later she would turn on me with a sentence that began "It wouldn't kill you to--" or "It just kills me that you--" or a question that opened with "What's wrong with you, anyway? Do you think--" And all of it at a dead shout.
I'm glad that, most of the time, I don't need to listen to that voice in my head these days. But it makes it tough to write about her. Last night when I tried I found my stomach in knots after a few pages, even without being able to quote her directly.
On the good side, though, a couple of chapters are looking like with minimal reworking they could be essays for publication. One of them makes an important social point and keeps demanding my attention. I notice that as soon as I change the names and places to protect the innocent, right away I get too much distance from the events to be able to write about them effectively, so I won't be posting excerpts until it's very near completion and the names are fixed. But it sure feels good to be getting this close.
It's being a strange October, but a good one. Later in the week I get to attend another movie opening with My Son the FilmMaker. Middle of next week will be the 7th anniversary of Mom's death. The leaves are falling as if there wouldn't be enough wind tomorrow, if they waited.
Blessed Be.
And thence straight back into the memoir.
Another 5000 words last week, and more in progress in answer to fellow-students' comments. "We want to know more about your inner experience," one writes, "you've managed to leave yourself almost entirely out of this scene." Okay, that generates three pages of interior monologue to go with two pages of tightly written 'he said / she said'. It's not a finished piece yet, but now more of the raw material is out on the table where I can see it.
"You've mentioned your Mom in almost every page, but she never speaks and we don't see her doing anything. Why would you tell your Dad about this or that but not your Mom? What was going on with your Mom just then?" is the general thrust of the comments from three other classmates. A couple of hours later I have about five pages of a ten-page piece about what my Mom was like when I was in high school.
And I also see why I'm not writing much about her.
First, she lived to be 89, and the section of memoir I'm in deals with the years when she was 50-55 or so. Those were the last years of my Dad's life, so they're the ones I remember best of him, but I have lots more of a relationship with her after I moved out.
Mostly, though, I didn't much like her when I was in high school. I was angry with both of them a lot, as teens are, but I cared about his approval (which was hard to get) and was aware of her double-messages (which I hated). Dad wanted me to grow up to be happy, and had lots of ideas on how that could be managed -- some even useful ideas. Mom wanted me to avoid growing up unhappy ... and the important difference was that it often meant she would acquiesce on some idea until I actually started to do it, and then suddenly decide I shouldn't. My adolescence contained far too much tension between "I have to" and "I can't," and not nearly enough freedom to experiment. And a lot of that was because of her.
I didn't like the way she spoke to me in those years -- all eliptical Victorian euphemism, followed up with major Parental Disappointment when I didn't take the hint. I didn't like the way she shrieked at me in those years either -- whether she was angry at me or at someone else in the family, sooner or later she would turn on me with a sentence that began "It wouldn't kill you to--" or "It just kills me that you--" or a question that opened with "What's wrong with you, anyway? Do you think--" And all of it at a dead shout.
I'm glad that, most of the time, I don't need to listen to that voice in my head these days. But it makes it tough to write about her. Last night when I tried I found my stomach in knots after a few pages, even without being able to quote her directly.
On the good side, though, a couple of chapters are looking like with minimal reworking they could be essays for publication. One of them makes an important social point and keeps demanding my attention. I notice that as soon as I change the names and places to protect the innocent, right away I get too much distance from the events to be able to write about them effectively, so I won't be posting excerpts until it's very near completion and the names are fixed. But it sure feels good to be getting this close.
It's being a strange October, but a good one. Later in the week I get to attend another movie opening with My Son the FilmMaker. Middle of next week will be the 7th anniversary of Mom's death. The leaves are falling as if there wouldn't be enough wind tomorrow, if they waited.
Blessed Be.