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Please Allow Me to Whine Over my Memoir for a Moment

MEMOIR PROJECT ROUGH DRAFT

In my twenties, I wanted the world to know about the injustices of my life. I wanted sympathy. I wanted pity. It was as good as love.

I told anyone who would listen about my life in the cult, about the control freaks and the perverts; about the many houses and many dads I had; about the friendships in the cult and the painful civil war that followed the scandals that broke out; about the terrifying belief in the supernatural world of God and Satan and the mental disease it nearly created… I told anyone and everyone the sad story of my life.

Drifting into my thirties, I changed immediately: I didn’t want anyone to know the full story of my life. It was at last, the past, and I felt the future in front of me and I wanted to look there. I’d spent my whole life living with all that crap from the past, and I could choose to put it behind me if I wanted. I could never speak of it again or write of it again if I wanted; the choice belonged to me. I wanted to have fun.

But there was a problem. I am a writer, and I can’t resist telling rich stories and my life is full of them and eventually, full disclosure must come for the story to make sense. And so after a while, everyone knew my past again. But this time, it was for the sake of the story, usually a funny story not a painful one, and not for pity, not for sympathy… for the sake of an interesting story over lunch with my coworkers. I live for telling good stories.

But telling a story with your mouth is one thing, writing it is another. Writing is a time machine and teleports the writer to the scene be it past, present, future, and all senses are submerged into the scene. There is no one there to interrupt. To ask questions. To change the subject. To offer perspective. To laugh when you thought you should cry. Writing is you and a machine. A writing machine. A time machine. And time travel is not always easy on the body and soul. A forty-five-minute trip in the morning can leave lingering side effects for the rest of the day both good and bad.

I’ve discovered through the process of writing my memoir that I do not like to force myself back in time. I don’t enjoy reliving the past exactly as it happened. And going back in time with knowledge of the future—with knowledge of experience and erudition—can make a trip to the past a frustrating and painful experience. Unlike the movies, you can not alter the future by changing the past as a writer. You must relive it as it was, knowing where it will lead, unable to warn anyone of the future. Unable to sit on a rooftop with a rifle and take out the man who will ruin your world. You must sit, and write, and let yourself live it all again. The only future you can change is the one playing out when you step away from the writing machine—the time machine—and move forward with your life with the story you pressed to a page and published to the web etching a tattoo of this story onto your life skin forever.

My past is painful, yet full of fascinating stories. As a writer, stories are your boon. I’ve been given a great boon. But using the magical treasures of this boon comes with risk, for no magic is safe from consequences. To write my life, I must relive the past and experience the pain all over again, sometimes in twenty-fold larger doses than living it the first time. I must be willing to live with the tattoo some of my stories may etch to my life, and do I want to live with this tattoo? There are many stories that I am not proud of but are integral to the big story and once written, I must, my family must, everyone in the story must, live with forever.

In my twenties, I wanted the world to know about the injustices of my life. I wanted sympathy. I wanted pity. It was as good as love. It was a desperate quest for love. So I told my stories to the world and threw the consequences to the wind.

I have love now. I have a family. I have a good life. I can wake up each morning and just enjoy this life. Or I can wake up each morning and relive my strange past, affecting the good life that I have with uncertain consequences that I speculate to be not so good. So why am I doing this?

Because everyone tells me I should write a book, my wife thinks it will make money, and I have a writer’s obligation to a great story.

But in the end, it is all about choice. I can walk away. I can have a fun life with my family. I can let the story of a lifetime crumble away under the destructive influence of time passing by. Or I can write my story. Possibly create something incredible. Possibly even make a few coins. But with the cost of some time and peace of mind.

What should I choose? The lady or the tiger? Or both?

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on November 26, 2006 in
Emotion: Fear, Type: Journal Entry