Hidden Stories

Yesterday I started a new writing course at the Norwalk Library called Hidden Stories. The instructor was the instructor from my last course.

Hidden Stories focuses on tapping into personal experiences, family stories, works of art, and imagination for inspiration. Our first class assignment was to describe our childhood or teenage bedroom. It was fun to write and to listen to the other students' stories.

For homework, we're supposed to write about our childhood best friend. I've been thinking about that since yesterday's class and wrote about 200 words on the subject today.

One thing Kim the instructor said yesterday really connected with me. She said we had taken an hour-and-a-half on a Monday to write. If it weren't for the class, probably none of us would have written a word.

Saturday Movie Night: 12 Years a Slave

The HBO premiere two Saturdays ago was 12 Years a Slave. I've been thinking about the movie since then.

It's a good film--maybe a great one. I'd have to watch it again to decide. The performances were excellent.

It's an important film--especially for Americans.

It's a harrowing film--it's hard to watch.

I've read some criticism that the film is too optimistic--"only" 12 years as a slave--audiences aren't ready for a lifetime as a slave.

I can't argue with that. But I understand this choice of narrative. It's important to have a true story. Otherwise, some would complain that the film's owners and overseers were too cruel, too extreme. "They weren't all that bad."

Then there's the practicality of getting slave narratives. In many cases, reading and writing were capital offenses, how many narratives could there be?

I have one slave memoir--the story of Harriet Jacobs. To escape, she hid for seven years in a coffin-like garret. Imagine how horrible it must have been for her to choose that option.

We need to read the stories of Solomon Northrup and Harriet Jacobs.

November Check-In

I made some specific writing goals for November. I would write a blog post per day for National Blog Posting Month and would write an additional 10,000 words.

Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

The good: I wrote 35 blog posts this month. If you check the dates of my posts, it looks like I missed November 12th. But one of my posts for the 13th, Climate Warp, was posted at 12:01 AM. I'm counting that as a post for the 12th, so I've succeeded in my posting goals.

My other writing? Well, I failed badly. I wrote 1,806 words when I had a goal of 10,000 words.

One piece was about memories of summers at the Jersey Shore, focusing on Ortley Beach. A second was fiction--about a woman returning to her home town for Thanksgiving and her cousin's wedding.

Obviously, I'm not happy with my poor showing. I took my goal too casually. Half the month was over when I started writing. But at least I wrote. I'm (a little) happy about that.

24 Years

Today Jeff and I have been married for 24 years. We went out to dinner at Tengda Asian Bistro in Darien. We hadn't been there in years and it was delicious.

Jeff's birthday is in eight days. We usually combine our celebrations, sometimes going on vacation. This year we're throwing a party for Jeff's 50th birthday so we kept our anniversary low key.

I feel lucky to have found Jeff. We're well-matched. We enjoy many of the same things. But we understand that we don't have to enjoy all the same things. We respect each other's choices that we don't share.

Jeff has been a great husband, companion and friend. 

I'll share a piece about our wedding day that I included in my memoir writing class.

The Limo from Hell



            The morning of Jeff’s and my wedding, I was waiting in my parents’ den with my sister, Joanna. The limo was late.

             I checked the clock—11:10—time to leave if we wanted to make it to the church by 11:30.  Just then, I heard the crunching of driveway gravel under the weight of the limo. Finally. We hurried outside.

            “Sorry, I’m late,” the driver said. “They gave me the wrong directions to your house.”

            Joanna and I settled in the back of the limo and were on our way. I thought it was odd when the driver passed the entrance to the Merritt Parkway, but remained silent. After all, he was the professional.

            But when we turned left on Vine Road, I knew something was wrong. “You’re going the wrong way,” I said.

            “No, I’m not,” said the driver. “I looked up Lafayette Street on the map.”

            “But, we’re going to Lafayette Street in Greenwich, not Stamford.”

            The driver pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out. He began talking to another driver in the limo ahead of us.

            “What’s this—tag team limos?” said Joanna.

            I laughed but my stomach was churning. “I don’t believe this. I’m going to be late for my own wedding.”

             “Calm down,” Joanna said.

            “You’re right; they can’t start without me.” My giggles loosened the knot in my stomach.

 
            The driver returned and apologized. “They told me the wrong Lafayette Street. I was wondering why I couldn’t find the church.”

            Joanna and l looked at each other. “Jeff picked the limo,” I whispered.

            “The limo from hell,” Joanna said.

            We hit traffic in downtown Stamford trying to get on the turnpike. The limo clock read 11:20, but it felt much later. Joanna rolled down her window and asked a passenger in the next car for the time: 11:30.

            Our driver turned around. “I could have given you the time.”

            Yeah right. “They” probably would have given him the wrong time, along with the wrong directions and the wrong Lafayette Street. “They” were pretty incompetent.

            We reached the church at 11:50. Many of the guests had wandered outside. They quickly reassembled as Joanna and I entered. Even with my lateness, Jeff and I managed to get married on the upswing of the clock, a good omen according to my new mother-in-law.

            After the ceremony as we posed for pictures, I described my morning to Jeff. He told me that the limo had originally driven to the church.

 
          “You are the stupidest drivers,” Jeff’s father had said. “Did you expect to find the bride here? You’re supposed to bring her to the church.”

           After pictures, Jeff, Joanna and I returned to the limo with best man Jared and usher Adam for the ride to our reception. Inside the limo’s mini-fridge was a bottle of champagne.

            “Let’s crack that open,” I said. “We could use it.”

            None of us recognized the brand of champagne. By its taste, we figured it must have set the limo company back by $1.98 (excluding any volume discounts.)

            The car phone buzzed and Jeff talked to the driver for a few minutes.  The driver told him the champagne wasn’t included and we would have to pay for it. After all we had been through, the least the company could have done was spring for a cheap bottle of champagne.

          After our second toast, I looked out the window and realized I had no idea where we were. Luckily, Jared recognized our location and gave directions to the driver.

            “Sorry.” The driver repeated his litany, “They gave me the wrong directions.”

             When we arrived at our reception, I practically ran from the limo and waited for a few minutes for Jeff to join me.

             “What took you so long?”  

 
            “I had to give the driver my credit card number,” Jeff said. “He didn’t believe I paid.”

           We headed inside to celebrate. I was relieved that the ceremony was over and that our limo arrangements did not include a return trip.

           

 

                  

Writer's Cafe

Writers Artists Collaborative is running a series at the Westport Art Center. Today was the second in a series of Writer's Cafes--lunchtime gatherings for writers. I'll return next month; I'm curious to see how the group will develop.

We did an exercise today: write nine things you forget and nine things you remember (in ten minutes.) I didn't get the exercise until we shared our lists. In some cases, the lists were rich enough to pass for lines of poetry. Other lists were great for writing subjects. Some focused on specific days or events; other lists seemed disconnected.

I can write several memoir pieces from the list of things I remember--I already wrote about the limo from hell for the New Canaan memoir class. The list of things I don't remember could be weaved into some poetry.

Pretty good writing exercise.

Taking Stock Again--and Failing

Fall is in the air. My tutoring has picked up. I started with two students this week, will finish up a postponed tutorial and start another tutorial that will stretch into the spring.


August was not a productive month for me. The plan was to concentrate on writing. I was going to write a memoir piece between 1000 and 1500 words and enter a contest. The entry was due Tuesday and of course I would blog about it.


I wrote several short and medium pieces about the Russia trip and my father's death. The Russian material didn't flow. My idea was to weave my recollections from my journal entries. Oh, there is some good stuff there, but I couldn't bring it to life. I wrote one piece on the midnight train to St. Petersburg. It was too disjointed--it needed some overall theme or structure.


I think I'm too close to Dad's death to write about it. Let me rephrase that--to publish something about Dad's death. It's hard to know if what I'm writing now has any meaning to it. But I continue to write about it it my morning pages--one way of processing things.

As I wrote earlier, I wanted to blog about the memoir contest--about entering it--and later (I hoped) winning it. I'm not comfortable writing about failing. It wouldn't be so bad to lose the contest. I lost much more by not entering at all.

Birthday

Today is my sister's birthday. Joanna would have been 60, but she died in 1996.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately, Primarily because I've been reading my journal from our Russia trip in order to write a memoir piece (more of that in a future post.)

Now I'm focused on a loss of shared memories, Joanna's perspective on things and stories she could tell me. I can't compare notes on Russia, for example. I would have never gone to Russia without Joanna. My journal isn't as thorough as I would have liked. Some of the things that I remember so clearly I didn't even write about. At least I'm writing them now.

Of course, this focus on memories is also because of my father's death in April. I remember thinking a while back that I should sit down with my dad and hear more of his stories, maybe even take notes. I didn't get around to it. That's the downside to procrastination.

Taking Stock

Years ago, my friend Bev asked why I was so hard on myself. I don't remember the specifics but the context was writing--more specifically--not writing.

I do have a tendency to beat myself up over things I should have done, wasting time, etc. Sometimes it's counterproductive. At other times, it's needed to get me back on track.

I wasted a good opportunity for some solid memoir writing last week. I came back home with a mental map of what I needed to do this week. Since I had to include what I should have done last week, the map is full. But I didn't follow through--I have very little to show for the past two days. And that means more pressure to do things today and the rest of this week and the more I want to just say no--fuck it and hide myself away and read or watch Bette Davis movies or something.

It's not that I'm a perfectionist--far from it. I'm not sure what my problem is. I asked Jeff last night what's wrong with me? (He didn't reply--probably thought there was no right answer.)

I recognize that I am going through an emotional, stressful time: death, legal challenges, impending relative visit, underemployment, financial concerns. It's a lot to handle. Despite that laundry list of woes, I also recognize that I am lucky and privileged--I have resources to deal with them.

I've just got to figure out how and where to start.

Writing Your Life

A few weeks ago, I posted about my memoir group doing a reading at New Canaan Library and getting our book published.

Here is the link to purchase it. http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/writing-your-life---2010/11272065?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1

I've heard most of the entries and will soon sit down to read the book it its entirety.

The Journal Keeper and Phyllis Theroux

This morning I went to a reading and workshop given by Phyllis Theroux, focusing on her book, "The Journal Keeper" a memoir of six years of her life.

I enjoyed her selections from the book and the discussion that followed. After the workshop, I purchased her book and she inscribed it to me. I'm now looking forward to reading it.

Funny, I never thought of myself as particularly interested in memoir--until I learned a memoir does not have to be a complete timeline of life. I took memoir workshops at a Mercy Center writing retreat and at New Canaan Library (which led to a publication of our selections.)

Phyllis discussed a keeping a journal that you want to keep--reflecting on your feelings, being careful not to include raw emotions that could hurt a reader. I asked her opinion of morning pages, as developed by Julia Cameron. In my 15 second description, I might not have given morning pages their due. I said roughly--they were the mundane from which deep thoughts could arise. (Damn, roughly--I don't remember exactly what I said. I'm sure I said mundane, but doubt I said deep thoughts--where did my exact words go?)

Anyway, Phyllis completely disagrees with the idea of morning pages. I've been writing morning pages for over 12 years. While I haven't had an epiphany when writing them or had them lead me to the writing life I desire, I find that writing morning pages is a grounding exercise for me. I feel better for writing them.

It can be easy to say well, I wrote morning pages, so at least I did some writing, and let it go--forget about other writing. But Julia says morning pages are a tool--they aren't necessarily real writing--they help you get rid of distractions so you can concentrate on your art.

On the other hand, if you approach your writing with the idea that you have to reflect on your actions and emotions, and have something to say, as Phyllis suggests, you might never feel secure enough that you have something good enough, to actually commit your thoughts to paper.

As usual, I don't have clear answers. To me, asking and pondering the questions is what is important.