Dusting Off the Memoir

The weather has finally changed in Greenbrier.  Up until three days ago, I was still watering the droopy-leaved plants in our flowerbeds, patches of grass around the yard, and frail dogwoods and redbuds dying of thirst in the summer's Drought, which had obviously forgotten to look at the calendar.  Rain clouds finally accepted the invitation to "set a spell" and were rewarded by an outpouring of "Thank Yous!" from grateful survivors.  The morning paper announced that the burn ban for Faulkner county has been lifted.  As I shared the news with the oaks congregated around the front porch, I heard a rustling sigh of relief, an exhale of worries that they had stoically been carrying for months.

These trees have become my friends.  I've named them "Writer's Trees."  From the first morning I sat  with legs criss-crossed on the front porch swing, laptop perched on my lap (where else?) and wrote the beginning sentence of my memoir, the trees have been my companions.  Gathered around with arms stretching towards me, inching ever closer as breezes propelled them forward, they have given me their total attention.

 "Tell us a story," they urged, as I sat in front of a blank screen, with no clue where to begin. "We've been waiting for a story for such a long time."  Please tell us a story."  And that's how my story began.

Three years later, the story is in a manila folder lying on the desk of our upstairs study.  The morning is chilly so I sit on the couch opposite the desk, laptop open, staring out the window.  Reflecting the sun peeking around the eastern edge of the house, the trees shine with a healthy cheerfulness.  They chatter away with renewed energy.  But they are nosey.  The most vocal of the group pokes her head close to the window and asks, "So what are you writing today?  Read it to us."

"My weekly blog," I answer matter-of-factly, not wanting to get into a long conversation.

"Whatever happened to your story?" asks a quieter voice from below.  Getting up to check the source, I recognize the dogwood, brown now, but with a self-assured air that her delicate pink blossoms will be the height of the fashion scene in May.  The oaks towering above her stop, suddenly quiet, waiting for my answer, as the wind takes a break from her morning exercise.

"I don't know what to do with it.  I don't know if it's good enough. Maybe I should rewrite it. I could take up writing poetry instead, or perhaps a story for a children's magazine, or a biography of Drew's uncle who played for the New York Yankees, or. . ."

"Focus, Twylla!"  the chorus outside the window exclaims in a tone that can only be described as bossy.  "We like your story, but we're not the only ones who need to hear it. What about the women you wanted to share it with, who might be walking similar paths to yours?  We have confidence in you, but you must believe in yourself, in your writing and in your message."

It turns out that my Writer's Trees are, also, wise.

"I will try," I tell them.

"We'll expect to see the revisions of your first chapter next week," they say.  Did I mention that they're  bossy?

Note to readers:  As I pick up my memoir and look at it with fresh eyes, I invite you to share the titles of memoirs you've read which have been meaningful to you.  How did the writer connect with you? 
I'll start.  One of my favorites is The Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd, who also wrote The Secret Life of Bees.   I underlined and underlined on almost every page of this book because so much of what the author shares seems to be my own story.  So much of her search is my search.  She writes in such a way that shows her vulnerability, yet the strength needed to move forward, knowing that she can no longer be who she has been.  Her journey inspires me to continue my own.