Just Great

The much-anticipated meeting with memoir mentor Nancy Reddy here at the Murphy Writing School in Florida took place yesterday. I had previously supplied Nancy with the requisite 1000-word memoir draft excerpts for her review to make the most of our brief time together.

We had an animated discussion about the genesis of those childhood “scenes” and what they said about how I got here (to adulthood) from there (that childhood). She then articulated a challenge I hadn’t fully grasped that I have. “You actually have too much material to draw from,” Nancy intoned. “You will need to decide and get clear on your focus and throughline and a theme for your book.”

“It could be fractious and conflicted mother-daughter relationships. It could be the limited availability of helping options in toxic mid-century WASP North America after World War Two. Whatever else, you should choose to focus on the transformational aspect of your story. How you developed skills that helped you survive what otherwise might have been unsurvivable.”

Great… just great.

I grant you, an unstable childhood riddled with physical violence, sexual molestations, alcoholism, sex addiction, neglect, prescription pill addiction, my mother’s serious suicide attempt when I was 11, and, eventually, a jagged divorce between my parents that was never really final is a lot of material to wade through. And a lot of material to choose from. Hell, it was a lot to live through!

Nancy advised me to make essential choices to get organized and clear about where to focus my story’s stories. The dutiful student that I am, I hied me to a stationery store and loaded up my cart with index cards (white and colored), highlighters (multi-colored), looseleaf paper, and a binder to hold it all together. Holding it all together has been another repetitive throughline in my story. I have embarked on the book organization path before but with less gravitas and focus. Now, this truth must out.

I expect the book to be a shout-out of encouragement to other “identified” black sheep family members. The hope is that other survivors will read and resonate with what I went through and how I managed to survive. They may be emboldened to tackle and break down intransigent and seemingly immutable patterns of intergenerational trauma in their own families as I have tried to do in mine. No mean feat I assure you.

But explore it I shall with all the heart and humor and love and discipline I can muster. I could just walk away, of course, and coast happily to my grave. No one would notice or care. Author, Joanne Fedler wryly argues, “So, you want to write? Steal time. Make time. Sneak time. Take time. No one gives it to you. Or just don’t write. The only person you will make miserable is you.”

I sigh in resignation and remind myself again that I chose this path. With cause.

Getting Away to Write

Nestled on the Atlantic Coast of Florida, the setting of the Atlantic Center for the Arts is a writer’s paradise. Florida itself is a sun-filled paradise in the middle of March for those who make their way here from chilly northern climes. Coming by car, I turned the corner into the Center and the imposing black iron gates opened with the assigned code. Wooden walkways lead to various studios and buildings at the Center and, happily we are warned, keep one elevated above the resident rattlesnakes. I now dearly wish I’d brought my Wellies. The room is both spare and inviting. All the necessary amenities like a coffee maker, microwave, small fridge. Both windows in my room look out on a cacophony of gangly palm trees and exotic jungle-like greenery. The copious greenery is equal parts soothing and stimulating. I’ve come to this writing retreat as a Writer-in-Residence to focus on writing and to rub shoulders with 42 other writers for six days. The Murphy School of Writing is based at Stockton University in New Jersey and had hosted retreats here for decades until COVID. Now the School, like the rest of the world, is getting its’ feet under it again and holding in-person retreats here and in New England and New Jersey. This retreat offers two dedicated workshops specializing in Poetry and Memoir. Led by Writing School Director Peter Murphy – a Welsh-born American – and author Nancy Reddy respectively, the students meet and write together for four hours daily. As the Memoir workshop was full, my goal here is to inject much-needed rigour into the writing process I’ve undertaken. I aim to produce the book that has been simmering in my head for decades about the strategies I used to overcome an unstable and fractious childhood. There will be quite a lot of juicy bits about pitfalls and backsliding along the way. The process feels like subjecting myself to a university course while chasing a degree again. I know my focus and several scenes have already solidified. The required research has started. The themes are emerging and clarifying. The necessary discipline, according to nearly every writing guide I’ve ever read, is to write for at least two hours a day until a draft manuscript is produced. The greatest writing advice out there for those in need of guidance? “Put your bum in the seat.” “Shut up and write.” Having a manuscript in hand, there is more work ahead to review what’s been written, edit, polish, rewrite, edit, proofread, cut, and review again until there is a collection of words that hangs together to ultimately attract several readers’ interest. That’s the goal at least. There is alchemy involved, I know. And part of the alchemy is starting down the path with the belief that with constant application and elbow grease, my goal will be achieved. And there are all of you, of course, to keep me on the straight and narrow. Hopefully, along the way, there will be sufficient tidbits of information about writing and general observations about the ludicrousness and beauty of life to keep you engaged. Or at the very least, even if you are bored stupid, you will be kind enough to refrain from saying so. Writers need that kind of support and encouragement.

I Ain’t Afraid of No AI

The interweb is drenched with horror stories about the looming prospect that our brains and very livelihoods as writers will be overtaken by AI (artificial intelligence), accelerated by the recent release (November 2022) of user-friendly ChatGPT.

One short hop – the horror-struck assert – to total world domination by HAL’s (of A Space Odyssey fame) technological descendants. “Humans will be replaced.” “Writers will lose their jobs.” “Humans and writers will become redundant.” Great sci-fi plot drivers but, in reality, I’m not so sure.

I’m heartened by Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker’s take. “Fear of new technologies is always driven by scenarios of the worst that can happen, without anticipating the countermeasures that would arise in the real world.” Ref: https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2023/02/will-chatgpt-replace-human-writers-pinker-weighs-in/

Ego-driven, self-preservation-mandated lot that humans are, Pinker doesn’t think the worst-case scenarios currently being bandied about will happen. Neither do I. We are famous for bringing ourselves to the edge of crises without actually going over the falls to eradicate humankind. Ergo, saber-rattling around World War III. As objectionable as Vladimir Putin is, I doubt he is seriously inclined to wipe out the world as we know it in order to reclaim sovereignty over a small piece of Ukraine. That would be the most unfortunate Catch-22 ever.

Unfortunately, this does mean I won’t rely on AI to write the book I have committed to this year. Sigh. Pinker anticipates considerable pushback from our collective ego and common sense to allow that to happen. He cites this example: “Another pushback will come from the forehead-slapping blunders, like the fact that crushed glass is gaining popularity as a dietary supplement or that nine women can make a baby in one month.”

The speed at which technology can do damn near anything better than humans since it arrived in popular culture some thirty years ago has hornswoggled us all. Quantity trumps quality. Bling trumps class. Speed of output has won out over deliberation and thought. Technology is so pervasive we struggle to define or even remember what it is to be human.

So we suffer. En masse. And self-help book publishers, therapists, and a great swath of pill pushers reap the rewards. Even if there was no other argument to make for the value of writing, what matters is that it captures for us what is essential for us as humans. There is a crucial role – and one might argue an essential role – for humans that focus on human stories and issues now more than ever.

So, AI, honey. Hold my beer.

On My Way

Words and I have had the strangest and most intense relationship for as long as I can remember. An ambivalent relatuonship I like to say as I both love words and I hate them. (More about that in posts to come.) Words have been close companions, sparring partners, lanterns in the dark, and sources of comfort when all human comfort eluded me. To say nothing of the vast amounts of knowledge and scads of insight I picked up along the way. Damned handy tools to have in my arsenal it turns out. I have been told all my life by people I admire and respect that I should write a book. So this is me starting out to do just that. I intend to write here every day for one year and see where I am a year from today. I anticipate gaps (giving myself a built-in “out clause”). I anticipate frustration. I anticipate hair-pulling, gnashing, wailing and carefully curated whining. I am extremely good at suffering. Ultimately, I anticipate a sort of soul satisfaction simply by putting out into the world what has milled about in my head and heart for eons. Well, okay, decades. Tomorrow is March 15, the ides of March. Traditionally it marks a turning point. It certainly did for Julius Caesar. Similarly, I hope to kill off the doubt, insecurities, and ennui that have held me back from becoming a “real writer” in this world, on this plane, in this time. Such a broad term “writing.” My life has been infused with all the juicy stuff required for riveting writing: tragedy, love, pathos, violence, comedy, struggle, humiliation, triumph, achievements, births, deaths, family dysfunction and tenderness. Love – as I understand it – has always led the way. You, dear reader, are my accountability tribe. If you are onboard with me on my journey, give me a like or a ribbing, or anything but a virtual poisoned dart. I cannot abide trolls. So let’s see how I do over the next 364 days. One to five minutes at a time.