Writing memoir smacks of self indulgence and self importance or maybe its the insecurity in me that resists it.
I continue write memoir for two reasons really; because a therapist once told me that my life had the makings of a very interesting read (maybe like a train wreck that you can’t look away from) and secondly for my own self examination.
I’ve fought the reality of my own making, screaming, “I’m not insignificant! I’m special I’m different! I’m not like anyone else!” In reality, I think I’m the one that needs convincing not everyone else. We are all unique with a story only we can tell. I seem to need more convincing somehow and so I validate my struggles and my perceived achievements to prove to myself that in the this wide universe I mean something. That my struggles have purpose.
My work had significance my life has merit. Know me and see me and see that I have something to offer. Let me share me – I can’t always do that in the day to day so I do it in one grand gesture. I tell you. I invite you in and take you through all aspects of the train wreck. The mangled bodies. Where all the pieces lay along the tracks. The emotions of those on board the train who shared my journey and still ride with me even though its quiet at times, roaring at others.