Tag: Writing a Book

This is a writing accountability blog. I have committed to publishing a book by March, 2024. I invite you on the journey as I plough through the internal and external obstacles I face. As the great Bette David loosely said in the movie “All About Eve.” “Buckle your seatbelts. It’s (likely) going to be a bumpy (ride.)”

Say What

I am taking part in the Facebook Ultimate Blog Challenge. The ask is to post daily for the 30 days of April. If we do, I think we win a badge. That makes me happy. I am big on badges. Money would be nice but a badge will do.

If I’m honest, I had a bit of a head start on daily blog-writing, publishing my first post on March 14 and committing to do that daily for a year. (That could change and for an exceptionally good reason which I will address in a later post.)

Paul Taubman is running the challenge. Since April 1, he has been posting prompts I have blithely ignored until now. I have lots to write about. But his prompt today was not only an interesting ask but potentially valuable to me. For the memoir, I have to describe my ideal reader. As of now, I don’t know exactly who I should be writing for. Imagine, Paul suggests, sitting in a cafe with one of your blog readers. Letting them tell you what they need to hear. The exact words of Paul’s prompt:

Have Coffee With A Reader

If you were sitting in a coffee shop with one of your blog readers, what would you chat about? What would you like them to know? Or what would you like to know about them? Share it in a blog post.

I am naturally garrulous and gregarious (ie, verbose) and a former multi-media journalist. Talking to people is easy for me. Not just easy but usually enjoyable and occasionally fascinating. I believe every single person has a story to tell. Finding them was my main bread and butter as a CBC journalist. The newsroom hierarchy was such that you weren’t rising on the corporate ladder unless you were bent on pursuing “hard news.” My bent was more toward “human interest” stories. That is the sole reason I did not become the female version of Peter Mansbridge, the legendary CBC TV news host, of my set.

I did a few stories I was exceptionally proud of. Annie Cairns was an orphaned Middlemore Home schoolgirl who was moved from England to Canada at 14 in the 1940s. Her story was analogous to Anne of Green Gables as she evolved from a mistreated child to eventually become a settled wife, mother, and homemaker.

Annie’s story was broadcast on CBC radio and ripped off the cloak of shame she had worn all her life. She eventually traveled back to England and elsewhere around the world in the remaining years of her life. Free as a bird. That pleased me greatly. It was my first real-world experience of giving voice to a miserable history allowing them to drop the veil of shame that changed someone’s life for the better.

So, back to the present and Paul’s prompt, what would I ask a blog reader? I would want to know what grabbed them about any particular blog post they had read. What bored them? Or confused them? Did any of the posts delight them? Or repel them? I would want to know how to address readers’ concerns more directly. What would they want to know more about? What would they prefer never to hear tell of again?

I enjoy sharing my take on what I have learned about life in our time. It makes life make more sense to me, in fact. The lessons have been abundant. Sometimes hilarious. At other times, searingly painful. Wondrous. Perplexing. Savage and sacred. The whole enchilada.

I would like them to know about the lessons I have learned from the greats of history. Antoine St. Exupery’s The Little Prince taught me that we find love and meaning by pouring them into something we care about and watching it grow. Don Miguel de Ruiz’ The Four Agreements taught me to lighten up and not take everything people said personally. And to do my best no matter how lowly the task. Gandhi taught that lesson well as he cleaned latrines along with the untouchables caste in his Indian compound. That is the very definition of walking a mile in someone else’s moccasins.

I’d say more to my blog readers if I knew I had their ear. I’d ask them more questions. I’d probably get up and get us another coffee. And a couple of biscotti.

Writing this blog is something like starting a conversation. A little one-sided at the moment I grant you. But it is written in the hope that one day that conversation will become a two-way street. Even a multi-way street. Which would be – to use the parlance of the time – awesome.

Beginnings and Endings

Outside my window, church bells have started pealing. The sun is slowly edging its way upwards into the day. Light casts shadows over the landscape on its way to fully illuminating everything for today. Birds call in the distance. Every dawn feels like the beginning of a new, undefined something. Our days are ours to make of them what we will. How easily the sacred twilight time dissipates and the doors of the day fly open.

It is like trying to hold on to our infant children. That unrepeatable time in their life and yours when there is nothing there but promise and peace and possibility in their little beings. And within those moments, the poignant realization that I can only hold on to them as they now are in memories. Which fade. Aught to do but see them as they are right then, savor them for a little while, and then take yourself away from their cribs and make the morning coffee.

I believe those occasional glimpses of “sacred” moments keep us moving forward. Unrepentant cynics aren’t completely wrong. It is a messed up old world and always has been. But I live for the slivers of sacred moments, then pile them up in my head until I have a banquet of happy moments and memories to look back on. I choose to absorb into myself the peace I know is out there in the world.

It wasn’t always like that for me. Dawn would break, the birds would start singing and I would reach for a glass of the hair of the dog that bit me. Pain begets pain. That is until we decide to step up and into and steep ourselves in its lessons. I once sat in my living room off and on for weeks as waves of pain would wash over me like sitting in a lye bath. Lye is caustic and made from wood ashes. It was used in times gone by for washing clothes and soap making. Overexposure can burn the skin. My memories felt like they were burning mine.

Steeping in the emotional lye bath of unwanted memories, I truly suffered but could feel my heart being cleansed and cauterized. This is the only way to healing, I was assured. To face up to your delinquencies and feel the pain fully before it can be released. Something in there, too, about finally taking personal responsibility for everything you did or that happened to you. That is not to be confused with taking on all the blame for what happened to you. People do bad things. And you have done bad things, too. I did. It is a reminder that you have a choice in how to face up to everything that happens to you – good or bad.

I remember a repetitive thought I had as I was going through this emotional test by fire. In the midst of learning some horrendously painful life lessons, I thought I would much rather have read them in a book. Would that a book or two would have intervened earlier in my life and set me on an easier path. But life unfolds for each of us at the age and stage when we are ready to learn the lessons. That sounds much more orderly than it actually is. We can either learn deliberately by staring down our demons or our demons take over and control us. It’s about feeding the right wolf as I have said before.

We all have measures of light and dark inside us. Refute that fact and you can become one sorry son of a bitch. One of those humans who is so convinced of their holiness and right-thinking that they can make no allowances for the frailty and ambiguity in fellow humans. Evangelical Christians come to mind. They take what is essentially some good common sense direction in the Bible about how to live a good life and go to hell with the joke. As it were.

If you are making others miserable because you can’t treat anyone else’s belief system with respect, then you have kind of missed the point JC was trying to make. I am impatient with stereotyping. I am impatient with the implicit set of “tests” good Christians arbitrarily dream up to admit you to their circle of the blessed and worthy. I am not a great joiner of clubs.

Since early, early morning, the darkened skies are now lightening up and rent through with long skinny clouds of gold. The bells and the birds have mostly gone quiet, their reveille chores having been completed for today. I love the certainty of what I wake up to every morning. I rely on it in my life much as I do my breath and my heartbeat. I stop to take in these precious slices of time in the morning. Because one day, I know I won’t be able to.

Dear Abby

From the Facebook Wisdom of Life Community

This query from an overwhelmed Mom popped up on this Facebook group I belong to. My answer to this writer’s call for help generated positive feedback on that site. I thought it might be worth sharing. (The inquiry is anonymous so I am fairly sure I haven’t breached any ethical boundaries.)

Not so long ago, I could have written a similarly themed post. On the other side of those dark days now, I wanted to share insights with her that helped me. Healing deep emotional damage is a marathon, not a sprint.

In my answer, I borrow shamelessly from the advice column stylings of Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren. They were sisters who doled out daily nuggets of hope in “advice” columns published back in the middle to late 20th century in newspapers across North America.

*********************************************************************************

Writer: I am suffering from severe treatment-resistant depression and anxiety. I am in the middle of tapering off Valium and having an extremely hard time getting off of it. I’m in a loveless relationship for 20 years with four kids. I have no job or career and nothing to call my own except for being a mom. I’m scared, lost, and have no support system. My dad died in September and I was disowned by my mom and family so I only have one sister left. I’ve spent my life caring for others and not being cared for myself. I’m in a deep dark hole with no way out. Nowhere to turn. Can’t sleep. Can barely function. And very moody. My only time to myself is when the kids are in school but soon they will be home all summer and I don’t think I can handle it with the way I feel. I just need someone to love and support me. And I don’t have that. How do I navigate my way through this?

Answer from Margot Brewer: I have been where you are (but with two kids). Identifying your misery is a healthy start. That may sound contradictory but it isn’t. The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. You have to start learning to love yourself and truly believe you are worthy of love. You have lived without love in your marriage for a long time. When you have a long history of want, it is hard to conceive of another way of being. You have a lot of healing to do. Losing your Dad and your family are massive losses that need to be acknowledged and grieved. I lived through that, including the estrangement from the family. Be ever so gentle and compassionate with yourself. Look around your life and decide what you can and cannot control. Find something in your world every day to be grateful for. Make a gratitude jar. This may seem flaky. I get that. Do it anyway. And start taking extra special care of yourself every day. Carve out space in your downtime to do things that make you happy. Music, books, nature, gardening. Anything that gives you even slivers of joy and gets you outside yourself. It is a long road to get out from underneath the weight of your life but you can by holding on to the belief it can change. I still take some medication for occasional relief but it is only part of my self-care routine, not all of it. Thank you for your post. I hope you find the strength and belief in yourself to feel better. It may take a while but the journey is worth it. Take good care of yourself.

Around and Around

Lately, I’ve cast my mind back on all of the international travel I did. I sure saw a lot of this old world. I’m still able enough to travel. Just not as motivated.

The first time I flew overseas I worked in a massive Waldhotel (country hotel) in the German Rheingau (Rhine Valley). All around for a full 360 degrees, vineyards bearing plump white grapes were everywhere I looked. This is the home of Liebfraumilch, the famous Blue Nun white wine, among many others.

The massive hotel restaurant I worked in mostly served tourists as its main clientele. Busloads would arrive shortly before noon. Getting all of the travellers fed and watered in a timely manner was a challenge. We would be running between the kitchen and serving tables for the better part of two-hours over the lunch period.

I struggled with German at first having set off from “Kanada” with only one year of university German under my belt. Luckily, the menu wasn’t too complicated and I could rhyme it off easily enough. In any case, the tourists were more interested in their food and drink than my German skill. As long as I got their orders right.

Had a bit of culture shock as a young foreign kellnerin (waitress). I remember a group of nuns who all ordered beer with their meals. Nuns drink alcohol? I saw a four-year-old boy sway back and forth as he whined to his father he was betrunken (drunk) after imbibing too much wine with his meal.

I flew over to Germany again in the summer after my second year of university. This time, I was a student attending Freiburg University with a bunch of other Canadian kids. My German picked up much more quickly. The in-depth studies were more rigorous and demanding on my German proficiency than reciting the choices off the daily Nach Eigner Wahl (a la carte) menu.

The summer following my third year, I went to Cairo, Egypt. I had been chosen as the UNB (University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada) representative on a national World University Service of Canada (WUSC) scholarship. Former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau had previously gone on such a seminar elsewhere in Africa in his student days. Trudeau became a lifelong WUSC supporter.

I studied Egyptian small business and tourism during the seminar. Our “downtime” was spent roaming the streets of Cairo stopping for shawarma and visiting places such as the Cairo Museum. All of downtown Cairo was a study in antiquities. We had field trips to Alexandria on coast of the Mediterranean Sea and down the Nile to Luxor before the area was flooded for the Aswan Dam. We sailed in an Egyptian felucca on the Nile River. On another day we took part in a Nubian feast deep in the desert.

Summer approaches and there have been discussions in our house about summer travel again. ehave talked about returning to Florence for a month or two. My husband paints in oil and was trained in a Florence art studio some years ago. He would like to go back. We are only at the dream stage at the minute. But haven’t I already said that is how most dreams start?

A cross-Canada train trip is also a possibility. I have travelled from Toronto to Jasper, Alberta. Once you get past the unending horizons in the Prairies, the Rockies loom large and imposing. There are few sights more breathtaking than a first glimpse of the towering Rockies. It is no wonder that Banff and nearby mountain towns are awash in tourists for a good part of every year.

So we’ll see what actually happens.

My compass has turned to more internal exploration these days. That particular element was missing in my earlier travel exploits. Did I ever make some major culturally inappropriate decisions. I am much better now.

I have said that I learned that wherever I go, there I am. Happily, now that I’ve been around the world and back, those destinations will now live in my memory until I die. By writing down some of my travel stories, they may live on a little longer.

The Bookee

The way I see it, if KN Literary Services is a purveyor and “booker” of book coaches, then I am a “bookee.” Yesterday I had the long-awaited ZOOM consult with KN Literary Services. It was productive. I met with Publishing Consultant Sarah Bossenbroek. I was heartened when our fifteen minutes expanded to half an hour without protest or polite dismissal.

Mutual respect is essential to a fruitful working relationship. My conversation with Sarah felt like a promising start in that regard. Sarah went over the challenges she sees in my writing project that we both feel I face when writing this memoir.

To start, the acknowledgment that there is much too much material. To address this, she advised me to think about this memoir as step one and park the remaining eras on the back burner once I’ve wrung all the juice out of one of them.

Sarah identified three distinct “eras” and stages in my life that she feels will be worth exploring: 1) Childhood 2) Young adulthood 3) Early days of parenting.

Each of those life chapters presented unique challenges and lessons for me. All were teaching experiences, eventually. Exceptionally well-disguised at first. What I took from Sarah’s summary was that creating an outline would be an effective place to start. I could then make lists of scenes, stories, and incidents from which I can pick and choose. I get to decide which scenes to develop and which to leave on the literary cutting room floor. I have to say that sounds like it would be helpful. I’d been leaning that way anyway.

I was also heartened to hear Sarah already has someone in mind with whom I might be a good match. Once I put a deposit down on our contract, Sarah will connect me with her and see if we are a good fit. If her first book coach pick doesn’t work out, Sarah assures me she will seek out another. And so on until I have an official book coach and partner

This book-writing project is getting real, folks, now that there is money and a contract involved. As my husband said to me early in our courtship, “You know a man is getting serious when he lays money on the table.”

I have moved out of the giddy excitement phase about starting off on this book-writing path. I am moving inexorably into the “real work” phase. It is odd how my mind processes words differently when it knows one day there may be in front of an external reader out there. I am having more internal discussions about what to include and what to exclude from the narrative. What moves the story along. What is extraneous and what is interesting enough to keep in.

Earlier I made a comparison between book writing and making a cake. The “birth-day” is today. I have to assemble the ingredients. I need to decide if I will proceed with KN Literary Services to commit and engage a book coach.

Where I did say earlier that engaging a book coach might be premature, I now believe the investment might be the difference between getting the book done or not.

Going forward, I will let you know what I decide. Full disclosure, I am leaning heavily into the “onward” camp. I’ve come this far.

Poor Bird

Missed my 3X Weekly Writers Group ZOOM meeting yesterday. I was wrung out. I slept poorly the night before. Woke up at 4 AM on Sunday morning. Sat down in front of the computer to make myself sleepy again. Got sleepy. Fell asleep and didn’t wake up until after the noon hour. Our group meeting starts at noon.

The bloody domino effect. I had been awash in nervous tension all week around a decision I needed someone to make in my favor so I could travel. The decision was not made in my favor. In fact, no decision was made at all. In any case, that nil decision completely upended my plans for this week, travel and otherwise

I am not 100% certain how to rebalance myself but it does seem like a “learning opportunity.” (Thank you, Oprah, for that emotional exit strategy.) I started by letting go of the outcome over which I had no control anyway. That was easier said than done. And it appears my psyche didn’t get the memo. Otherwise, I would not have been up in the middle of the night fretting and fitful.

So it goes. Now I have a brand new set of tasks ahead of me this week as I try to recover what I lost in losing out on the travel plans. So there’s that. Lots of busy work ahead.

After this is posted today, I have a 15-minute consult scheduled with KN Literary Services. I need help. They want money. Seems like a marriage made in heaven. KN Literary Services is the brainchild of author/publisher Kelly Notaras. Her book title is pure marketing genius. The Book You Were Born to Write. There is not a budding writer in the world who hasn’t frequently wondered if, and how, to scratch their book writing itch. Notaras nails it.

As a bona fide twenty-year veteran of the New York “big house” book publishing scene, Notaras is now embedded in what appears to be a mutually fruitful collaboration with the Hay House publishing company. My current focus is on writing a book proposal to submit to the Hay House Writer’s Community publishing contest (Deadline: May 5 or June 5, 2023) depending on the power of the procrastination phantasms. (I was looking in Merriam-Webster for an alliterative synonym for demons. Phantasms is way better than phantoms in this context, don’t you agree?)

I had already put off this consult with KN Literary Services twice. I feared I was not focused enough on what I wanted to write about to have that conversation. I feel I am clearer now but I expect they will tell me. I write a series of scenes dutifully each day, then save them to my computer in a file called “SCENES.” The so-called narrative “arc” of my memoir is building. Salty-sweet, let’s call it.

It is about the struggle of getting from where I was sprung to where I am now. A place of peace. That was the most implausible of dreams in my youth, but here we are. There is a whole literature devoted to society’s tendency to “blame the victim.” What I didn’t expect was to experience blame from a parent for violations that happened to me on my parents’ watch. My mother (my primary antagonist) had a number of memorable sayings. One I remember that is germane to this discussion: “It’s a poor bird that shits in its own nest.”

Maybe in writing this memoir, my mother was right. Come to think of it, Poor Bird isn’t a bad working title. At the very least, I can thank my mother for that.

Days Like This

We are all condemned to have the occasional “off” day or two. The gods of patience and acceptance I appealed to did not pay off. I am stuck where I am indefinitely instead of being where I really need to be. Normally I can handle setbacks and frustration. We all have to from time to time. But, damn.

I have a habit I’ve developed over several years now when I take an emotional hit. I don’t immediately react. I chill out for a while. I take a few deep breaths. I may make myself some tea. Even if I feel awful or sad or scared or something equally unpleasant, I take a minute. Instead of reacting immediately, I create some mental and emotional space inside myself. I wait until I feel strong and composed and ready enough to deal with whatever it is that needs to be dealt with. Trust me, this was an acquired skill.

There is no need to open up, let alone answer that bound-to-be disturbing email that just popped up on your screen. There is no need to answer your phone when you are not up to talking to the name that comes up. Once I remember, back in the days of dial phones, when my father was visiting, I let a phone ring in my house and fully planned to ignore it until it stopped. My father writhed in discomfort and finally blurted out: “Aren’t you going to answer that?” I didn’t.

I used to be at the beck and call of the world. When it wanted or needed me, I’d step right up. No matter what my needs and feelings were. I expect that is still necessary at certain stages of one’s life. As an employee, you ignore your boss indefinitely at your peril. But you still have the right to take a breath and focus on yourself to get grounded in order to tackle the task or carpet call that is coming.

The problem in the workplace, like every other group dynamic, is that there is a predictable domino effect. Emotions are contagious. So if you catch a whiff of anxiety, especially from someone in charge, it is very easy to catch it. I think being a good manager and even a good parent has a lot to do with modeling emotional self-regulation and self-care.

I wasn’t always as calm as I am these days. No sirree, Bob – whoever Bob is.

I would go off on just about anything if my ego was invested enough. The conflagration of neurotic emotions like anxiety, fear, and distress would take over and I would be off and running. My amygdala would completely take control. The amygdala is known as the lizard brain. It has only one function. Self-protection. It doesn’t think things through. It doesn’t say: “Hold up a minute.” It doesn’t seek to negotiate anything or even invite you out for a beer. Instead, it triggers lots of adrenaline to flow into your system with the classic “fight or flight” response.

A talk show host whose name I refuse to mention did once impart a solid piece of advice I have taken to heart. “You teach people how to treat you.” So if you choose to be a doormat, expect to be treated like one. If you have questionable self-respect, don’t be surprised if people around you question your value, too. If you are meek and mild instead of taking bold actions, expect the world to reward you in kind.

And if you don’t want to be endlessly bothered by other neurotics, let the phone ring. Call them back later. They will survive. Especially when you are having an “off” day.

Patience and Acceptance

Patience is not my strong suit. I am better than I used to be but I’m still not great. I hate the feeling of helplessness that patience requires. I hate things outside myself that don’t move or react as quickly as I do. This made me a less-than-stellar mother when my kids were little. I honestly couldn’t wrap my head around how much my kids didn’t know. And the messes they made! That there is some pretty dysfunctional parenting.

I hate when some illusion I harbor of being in total control is tested. I was never in total control, of course. Far from it. But what a handy deception that was. It usually alienated or amused others who fully got that it ain’t happening until it is supposed to happen. They traded stress for relaxation and enjoyed the unexpected downtime. This used to horrify me.

“WHAT do you mean “siesta”?” “Why can’t these people keep their stores open all day?” “Back at WHAT time?” “Am I supposed to hang around here waiting for you to get back from lunch until I can purchase my – pick one – train/ferry/plane/bus ticket?” This was particularly galling in the then so-called “third world” countries. Customer service standards were variable at the best of times. Those populations had a lot of patience to put up with it. Or they had given up caring.

The qualities of being demanding and impatient generally made me a fairly typical entitled Yuppie and an unpleasant person to be around. Why can’t this task be accomplished in this amount of time I expect it to be to a suitable performance standard without so much whinging and whining about inadequate time and resources and blah, blah, blah? Not only did I not get the results I wanted with this attitude, but I also frittered away MY downtime. That was dumb.

I come from a family of worriers so in part I know it is genetic. Or environmental. My Nanny would frequently fret about just about everything. Maybe that was her coping strategy. She’d fret about the weather and if it would rain or not. And if the bread in the big mixing bowl would rise sufficiently if the air got too humid. We lived in mortal terror of opening and mistakenly slamming the oven door. The cake would definitely fall. I once saw a cake this happened to. It was a slippy-slidey, lopsided-looking creation on the plate. But with a generous dollop of icing on top, it still tasted delicious.

So today my fate is entirely in the hands of some faceless bureaucrat. Months of planning and negotiating a visitation schedule are likely to go up in smoke if the unnamed bureaucrat doesn’t come through. Blame and punishment are equally useless in a situation like this.

Eons ago, life won the arm-twisting contest and I started my transition from demanding Arschloch (That’s German. Look it up.) to a more patient and reasonable person. It was around the same time I learned the world’s shortest prayer that I regularly employ when I conclude there is not a damned thing I can do to make the current circumstances any better: Fuck it.

“Fuck it” has a dazzling breadth and range of applications to an equally dazzling breadth and variety of situations. This particularly patience-trying situation I am now in included. I believe it is wise for me to employ that short prayer right about now. So, fuck it. Que sera, sera. (That’s French.)

A Home of One’s Own

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

T.S. Eliot, Originally published 1943

Think about home. How does that word feel for you? Warm? Cozy? Messy? Bright? Gargantuan? Fun? Dingy? Safe? It’s a trigger word for some. It’s definitely a trigger word for me. I have been looking for “home” my whole life.

I envy those who can look back on their childhood with warm and fuzzy feelings. I wish I could. As soon as I was able, I set out to find my dream home. In my ignorance and haste, I made boneheaded mistakes. It didn’t quite work out as I expected. To start, I needed to believe I was capable of achieving stability. I wasn’t there yet.

The home I so desperately wanted when I was younger had to be created by me and me alone. “Me” wasn’t ready. “Me” moved around a lot. It took ages for this penny to drop. “Wherever I go, there I am.” Years of international travel taught me that packed with your luggage is all of your other baggage. To be sure, I traveled widely for years to study, to learn, to explore, and simply for adventure.

Underneath those goals was the unexpressed hope that by being somewhere else, I might BE someone else. Someone I actually liked and admired. Someone I could love and support. Someone I wanted to spend time with. I still cringe at the memory of adopting a British accent in London one summer. My Queen’s English was passable enough to chattily converse with a traffic bobby without raising suspicion that I was not a fellow citizen. Perhaps he was just a proper English gentleman.

What I hadn’t factored in when I headed off for foreign shores was that I needed to get rid of the mess in my own foundation first. You can try to build a house on quicksand, but it is going to fail. Before a house can be built, the foundation must be prepared and made solid. When one’s childhood is emotionally unstable, it can be difficult to know what is needed to stabilize that internal foundation. In my case, I moved around a lot. Every six months or so. For years.

The reason – though I didn’t know this as clearly when I was younger – was that staying in one place for too long allowed unwelcome feelings to come up that I didn’t know how to deal with. Eventually, legions of counselors over many years helped me excavate the muck in my psychic basement. Then one day the pile of muck is outside. The rot is drying in the sunlight. It finally desiccates down to dust and the wind blows it away.

How did I know I was well on the way to healing? I could talk about difficult events in my childhood without panicking or plummeting. I had searched for years for ways to feel normal. I didn’t want to be constantly nervous, or anxious, or terrified, or overwhelmed. That state of mind finally arrived when I could see and separate feeling like a bad person from a person who had many bad things happen to her. Such is the fate of the unprotected child.

I believe I am a good person because I continued to seek answers for why I didn’t feel like one. What a ride – and a long one at that. All that external and internal traveling has seen me finally disembark at a happy place. That dream home? Sure, it would be nice. But acquiring it is much lower on my list of life priorities these days. I am the home I always craved and needed. Welcome to me.

One by One by One

At a staggering rate, I get at least one like a day on my blog posts. I am a humble writer so that is all the encouragement I really need. I have a modest number of followers.  (Hello, dear reader.) Were Mom still alive, I might have surmised that single daily “like” came from her. Not that she was a consistent fan of my writing. Quite the opposite. Mom recognized early on that I could string words together but she balked at what I wrote about. Usually some uncomfortable memory from my childhood in which she was a key protagonist/antagonist.

It felt like her public shows of support for me were more designed to keep me (and her) from looking bad in front of friends, neighbors, and colleagues. She was thoughtful that way. I came to believe her over-the-top displays of support had the same undertones as “methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Acknowledging to herself, as she must have, that she wasn’t there for much of my childhood. Her expressions of support in young adulthood were no doubt relief, as much as motherly pride.

In university, I once received an amount of money in the form of the curiously named Anonymous Donor Scholarship. I was convinced my mother was behind it. I could only speculate about her possible motives. Boost that girl’s resume/prospects. Buttress the child’s/mother’s deficiencies. “But,” she would assert. “I never interfere.” 

I was well-coached as a child in the absolute “necessity” of repressing my truth or feelings, especially about “bad things.” Not only was I discouraged from standing up for myself, but I was also coached into playing along with the hypocritical societal sleight-of-hand that we lived in. All “to keep the peace” and “keep up appearances.” “Because it could hurt someone.” And “someone” usually meant the perpetrator.

My mother had odd ideas and choices in who she was driven to protect and a perplexing empathy for the underdogs she championed. It was clear that her own children did not merit the same degree of protection as an arms-length transgressor. How could she have been? They were HER children, after all. Invincible and special. They didn’t need protection. They were independent and self-reliant little girls. From a very early age.

Mom may not have been all that different from her parenting peers. The “keep the peace at all costs” message targeted girls and women – with the crystal clear sub-text – “… even if it kills you.”  In the Fifties, many women did just that. Poet Sylvia Plath’s unhappy ending at the open door of a gas oven is one of the decades’ more prominent victims. But in other ways, Mom was her own special creation.

All of this subterfuge and narrative shaping falls under the general category that we had drummed into us in the “Fabulous Fifties:” “Don’t spill the beans.” I won’t divulge more just yet. I have recently pledged to keep most of my emerging stories close to my chest until they “is” fully-growed. But flawed Fifties child that I am, I am happy to report that my memoir will be full of beans. Lots and lots and lots of beans.