By the time I wanted to apply to college, which was after I’d already graduated from high school, I believed my mom had been wrong about me. I wasn’t extra smart, in fact I was unable to do what it took to really get somewhere.
The “Fran” character in my memoir goes from being a secure little girl whose boisterous, tomboy personality shines, to feeling as lost and frail as an abandoned baby animal, then through a meandering path of uncertain steps until she recognizes herself again as the smart, outspoken girl she was meant to be.
First draft completed, I’m reading through it, marking it up, and using Scrivener to outline and lay out the rewrite. It’s compelling and is the only thing I want to do these days.
I finished my book draft the other night, after four and a half years of almost daily writing. My writing partner is almost done with her draft, too. This has taken us four and a half years that were going to pass anyway. Stick with your project — it feels so good to hit a milestone.
I built a fitness community around a popular brand. This time, in my writing, I don’t have a well-known brand. What do I have?
I researched a figure from my past, and when I found myself unexpectedly on the phone with her, I was ready to reach out about our shared memories. I was thrilled to have the chance to thank her for how she’d helped me in 1979.
My mom had shown me over and over again that it was my own responsibility not to be bored when there were so many things I could do alone, such as read or draw or talk with her, write in my journal, or write a letter to my aunt.
I’d say the message I took in, about how to handle my loss and my new life, was “Soldier on.” The future was obscured by worry. I couldn’t afford to give in to unpleasant emotions because I thought they would churn me like a tsunami wave and never stop.
As I mentioned last week, I spent the weekend at a retreat for women who lost their mothers before age 21. I looked forward to all of it: traveling to Los Angeles, staying alone in a tiny Airbnb camper-trailer, walking each day to the retreat house, and spending all day with women who have shared this traumatic, or at least seismic, event of mother loss. And I wondered how I would feel. I had forgotten one thing. When I sign up for something, I often resist the experience when the time comes. During the past 30 years, I’ve been to…
