Why write? It’s complicated. I never had any intention of becoming a writer, to externalize and expose myself on paper. But as life would have it, I had a meltdown in a course I was taking, and out of that emotional quagmire I wrote a short piece called “Queen Bee.” That’s how all this started. I shared it with my family which opened up conversations about my mother, a woman who pained my heart, so I rounded everyone up, gathered their stories, and put pen to paper. I was 53, the same age she was when she ended her life. I took those stories and spent five years in a writing class, distilling them, one story at a time. The result became my first book: Passages from Behind These Doors, a Family Memoir, twenty tales culled from the full story.
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p style=”font-weight: 400;”>Every story matters, and if I can find meaning for myself, perhaps I can help others find it. Isn’t that the main task of a storyteller? My writing gives shape to my life. It’s good for my soul. It’s also an effective way to get my inner voice to pipe down. Writing is a way to be seen and heard, to have something useful to say and the courage to say it. I can get on a royal tear about things, and yes, I can be vaingloriously all about me, but it provides me an opportunity to understand myself. It allows me to ask the questions I consider worth asking and perhaps, to answer them. It allows me to clarify my thoughts and ideas, and to explore what I wonder about or what I fear. Writing keeps me up at night, and on occasion, it lets me sleep.
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I put in black and white what I know, or think I know. I write about possibilities and perspectives. Incidents that crack me up or make me weep spill onto paper. I can wax poetic, but my lines rhyme, which I hear is out of style. I write about what matters to me: sin and prayer, hope and gratitude, about where I beg to be healed. I write about those I love and those who irritate me, even when they’re the same. I chronicle stories of family, friends, and fools. I write to smuggle those stories from my mind into yours.
Queen Bee, Reflections on Life and Other Rude Awakenings, my second book, is a compilation of short pieces I’ve composed over the years. Some are from my blog, many I’ve posted on Facebook, and others I’ve shared in my local newspaper. A few are in memory of those who have passed. There is a chattering of exchanges with my young grandchildren, most snippets, others, chunks of longer conversations. There is a section regarding my ancestors. I’ve spent years disturbing the dead in my family, digging up their stories, poring over their records, studying their photographs. I believe I’ll heal my soul by gathering us together and telling our tales. I write to leave our legacy.
I invite you to careen around with me, reading these stories that live in the back seat of my mind. It’s always lovely to have company. We can hold hands across the pages and share tears or laughter in between them. And hopefully, by the end, we’ll tell one another it was a great trip. Life, even with its continual barrage of rude awakenings, is always a ride.