It’s been a long while since I’ve posted a blog – basically since I returned to a burgled home in October. I posted the Roger Gillespie piece (now unpublished), but it had been written for a long time, and I shared it only because there’s nowhere for it to go. But I’m fond of it – not only as a piece of writing, but as a memory. It’s so real for me; but no one remembers Roger. I’ve asked around. I’m head injured, have PTSD from multiple and varied traumas, and spent too many years of my life dissociated from my experiences, so I sometimes wonder if anything I remembered was real. Try walking around with that kind of relationship with reality. Or, I don’t know…maybe you do, but for your own reasons. Reality is hard. Right? Still, I know this: Roger was real and the scene with the cigarette happened.
The urgency to synchronize my experiences with some kind of objective reality is, in fact, one of the primary reasons I write. Arguably, I could write in a journal and keep it to myself, which I did for a long time. I’ve been a writer for years, but focused on fiction through my 20s. Years ago, in college, I was given a nonfiction writing assignment involving memory. This was the first time I worked with my personal history in a creative way. The response was surprising. I got an A+ on my homework and my teacher called me aside to tell me to write more. To not stop there. That I had important things to say and that I should hone my craft and keep saying it. It would be quite a while more before I heeded this advice, but I never forgot it.
Important things to say. What does that even mean? I’m just some lady, right? Who the hell cares?
Turns out, people care. Continue reading