Process Journal / December

Writing Chapter 6, which focused on the positive side of Rhoda, was a fun, even uplifting, experience. After posting it on the blog, I went on to the next chapter, Triad, about the dynamics between Linda, Rhoda and me. What a downer that was! Makes me wonder if I should be writing this memoir at all; I might be a happier camper if I was writing more fun stuff. Being a person who’s never shied away from tragedy, however, I have to stick with it—to quit would be a cop-out. Besides, I still feel compelled to get it all out on paper.A few paragraphs into Triad I was suddenly overwhelmed by the melodrama of my family’s dynamics. Will anyone believe this? Is it just the product of an overactive imagination? Am I indeed as nuts as my family’s always told me I am? Do other families have these bizarre seething emotions boiling beneath the surface of everyday life? I became unsure of myself, of my perceptions, of what I think of as my truth. My story. If it’s colored by some kind of mental glitch—a tendency to paranoia, exaggeration, negativity—then the foundation of my life, everything I believe, is a lie–or, to put it into family lingo again, warped.Not surprisingly, I couldn’t face working on Triad this morning. Having now accumulated six complete chapters—short chapters, but still—I decided it was time to step back, read the whole, see if it hangs together. It’s really self-indulgence, since my favorite part of writing is re-reading and revising. But the way I see it, after a period of hard work, I deserve to indulge.I’ve just printed it all out. The pile of papers on my desk is like a present waiting to be opened.

 

 

Later the Same Day:

Some presents are disappointing.

I’m not crazy about what I’ve written so far. It doesn’t really hang together. I was kinda sleepy when I read it, so I think I’ll have to revisit it, but I must say, right now I’m feeling like the world’s worst writer. My writing is stiff, academic, almost boring–and boring is the one thing I would really hate to be.

It’s not compelling in the way that a good novel is (Like A Thousand Splendid Suns, the book I’m currently reading). I’m trying to think of a memoir, among the pile I’ve been dipping in and out of, that is compelling, though, and none of them are. I don’t know. I could conceivably quit this thing.