Marathon Dump
More than a week has passed since I sat down at my computer, rubbed hands together as I encouraged myself with pep talk, and delved into the book rewrite. Ten days, exactly. Every day I think about what I should be writing, jot down a few notes…and find lots of excuses to not transfer my brilliant ideas onto paper. I even shut down the computer for four days. A rebellion. Let me tell you what happened.
Not last weekend but the one before, I found the words and stamina to have a writing marathon, an exciting yet painful flush of memory and emotion that kept me typing furiously for seven hours on two chapters focused on my mother. The first one dealt with my childhood, one in which she was a mere shadow, someone who existed but whom I did not know. The second chapter delved into our inharmonious attempts at a relationship after I met her, and began living with her and a new step-father. Painful? Yep. I dumped and revised, dumped and revised, until I was empty and satisfied. Determined to “get this out of the way.”
The tale is essential to the memoir I’m writing: she must be part of the story of how I found my biological father and became a different person. She was the broken bridge that kept us apart; the consistent strife between us centered on the question of my father. Perfect material for a memoir, right? Well, I invite you to sit for hours and live in a past filled with regrets. Not a pleasant way to spend a day. Even now, as I write these few words, resistance stiffens my spine, my mood plummets. Regret, shame, guilt, and continued anger get in the way of my creativity, and the equanimity I need to write her story well. And by well, I mean the story cannot be filled with a garble of emotions, but instead be an enlightening tale told in baby steps that leads the reader to an understanding of what was and what has become. I need to make the tale shine, make it a first for the reader. Not the muddled and raw mess that stems from the limbic system, but the clarity of A+B=C in the left hemisphere of my cerebral cortex I sometimes am able to make dominant. Hard work, that.
So what does all this have to do with my shut down computer? After the writing marathon, after feeling satisfied that I found the perfect blend of scenes, background, and introspection to tell my mother’s so very important story…my exhausted brain and bleary eyes hit a key that sent it into the irretrievable ether. Vaguely, I remember replacing one document for another and with a satisfied sigh put my computer to sleep. Sunday, when I opened the file to re-read my masterpiece, what popped up was the old chapter of Susi, the one that was a muddled mess of cliches, lofty words, and babbling emotion that belonged to a patient, a child, even, but not a grown-up writer. I had saved the wrong file. Rather, I did not save the changes to the new one.
My dear husband, much more technically savvy than me, spent too much time searching for the ghost of my brilliant writing, with no luck. As I stared at the mess I originally wrote and tried to remember the new words, I mentally thumped my head over and over. Because my mind resisted. Drew a blank. So I shut down the computer and my mind for another time, another day.
Perhaps it’s time for that therapist, after all.
