When I wrote my memoir, Again in a Heartbeat, it felt like taking a leap into unknown waters. Why hadn’t I been a better wife to John at the end? Was my anger rooted in loss of control? A lack of maturity?
Remembering – and writing – about that time in my life felt scary. The only stories worth telling are the ones that scare us. I heard that once and believe it especially true of memoir.
I think of the quote by Joan Didion: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”
I hear writers in the Women’s Writing Circle, a support and critique group I facilitate, say. “Writing is my survival tool. This story is begging to be told.”
So, if that is the case, what stalls the writer’s best intentions?
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