Writing Your Life
When I told my mother that I was in therapy to sort out a few things, she made a sound like a snort and said, “Therapy isn’t my cup of tea. I’m just not that interested in myself.”
I wondered what could be more interesting, rewarding and just plain useful than making an archeological dig into what makes you tick. My mother was of the generation that called therapy “a crutch.” I could use a good crutch,” I thought.
I began to seriously work on my memoir after my mother passed away. There were some things I wanted to say that she wouldn't have liked or approved of and I didn’t want to hurt her, so when she was no longer here, I felt more comfortable telling the truth about my life. And still it was hard. Had I done enough, I wondered. Had I made too many mistakes? Had I met enough fascinating people and been enough places to write something compelling that would capture a reader’s attention? As the highlights of my life flashed before me, the answer was an unequivocal “Yes.”
For most of my adult life, I had penned stories and poems about the things that were happening around me and I had kept them. I reread them with amazement. I had forgotten so much. An abundance of life experiences rose to the surface that begged to be unearthed and permanently etched in my mind and I began to write short pieces about my travels, my loves, my losses, my family challenges, my failures and my achievements. The more I wrote, the easier it became to recall the wondrous, curious, funny and often tragic events that I carried with me along the path I’d chosen. My words became fluid and I was moved to tears by my courage and my fears, sometimes proud of myself, and at other other times ashamed of my choices. How could I have been so wise? How could I have been so blind?
I knew that I couldn't alter what I’d done in the past but I saw how I’d been affected and transformed by everything and everyone that showed up in my travels. Story after story, I got in touch with the lonely little ballet-obsessed girl who worked her butt off and later, the grown woman maneuvering her way through a life of obstacles. I recalled various crossroads in my life where I wondered if I should take the right path, the left path or just stand still. But whether I was clear or confused, enthusiastic or embittered, fearful or brave, anxious or paralyzed or parts of all of the above, I was astonished at what showed up:
Performing at the White House. Standing out in the street in D. C. to watch the procession for JFK when he was assassinated. Jackie’s veiled face. The horse with the stirrups facing backwards. The sound of the muffled drums. Salvador Dali flying down a stairway in a flowing black cape and an ocelot on his shoulder. Rudolph Nureyev walking across the beach in Monte Carlo in purple swimming trunks and purple suspenders. Andy Warhol peeking through a crack in the studio door to watch us rehearse. And then, there were the bleeding blisters on my toes and heels, extreme loneliness, strained muscles and the disappointment of losing a coveted part in a ballet. Figuring out how to raise myself when I left home at 14. How did I ever manage it?
I didn't remember choosing these things but I had obviously made those decisions. I have often pondered the idea of alternate realities. If our choices determine what comes next, what would have happened if I had taken a different road? What would I have done differently? Who would I have become? Whom would I have loved? But the truth is that it doesn’t matter. This is who I am and this is the voice that is writing my life.
In my classes, the most common problem people face is leaving themselves out of their work. I explain to my students that a reader needs someone real to relate to so they can say, “I feel that way, too.” Then they are drawn in and they’ll want to keep turning the pages and see what else is there for them to understand about themselves. I have a piece of advice, however, that I’ve learned from direct experience: Refrain from slandering other people in your writing. They’ll get their just desserts from living their lives. They need no assistance from you.
When I started my memoir, I wondered if I should I talk about the things that shamed me or should I leave them out? Would I talk about my successes or was that being too self-important? Would I share my failures or were they too embarrassing? I finally decided to tell it all with no filters. If I had gone through something, anything, other people were going through it, too. I wasn’t that special. I was a regular human being and it was a relief to tell the truth. By the way, it doesn’t matter that my life has been filled with uncommon experiences. Any life is worthy of remembering because whatever you did or didn't do, has made you into the unique human being that you are today.
I believe it's a writer’s responsibility to say the things that other people are afraid to say. To reveal yourself and become vulnerable. To stop editing and start telling the truth. If you don’t, you’ll be bored and your work will be dull. As long as you’re honest on the page, your narrative will be captivating. Just start anywhere and let it flow. Admit to what embarrasses you and talk about what makes you proud. Celebrate yourself for the wonderful things that you have achieved. Forgive yourself for things that you wish you hadn’t done. Or for things you wish you had done.
You don’t have be a great writer. You don't even have to be good at it. It's not your job to evaluate yourself. You don't have to show your work to anyone. You just have to begin and eventually you’ll break through into the writing zone where time disappears as you breathe life into your stories. I always keep in mind that what we forget, we repeat. What we remember, we heal.