I love good stories. Doesn’t everyone? Especially those who love to write, read books, and watch great movies.
We yearn for that perfect tale that captivates our imagination and has us cheering for the protagonist.
Whether it’s a book or a movie, if the characters are worth celebrating and getting to know, if there’s a challenge to overcome, an engaging plot, and if there’s a resolution that’s happy or at least reasonable, it’s worth your time. The fact that you won’t be able to see your fictional friends again can also be sad (unless, of course, there is a sequel.)
Whether caught up in a book that keeps you turning pages all night or watching Oscar-worthy moments on the screen, it is easy to see that everyone has a story. Some are just more interesting than others.
Even knowing this, I’ve been struggling for over a year to write my memoir.
I’ve spent countless hours determining the story’s structure, which parts of my life to leave in, and what parts I leave out. What point do I want to convey that anyone would care enough to read? What lessons did I learn that I want to pass on? If this book is part of my legacy, what is the most lasting wisdom I wish to impart?
I couldn’t decide, so I began writing anyway, hoping the words and memories would take me to where I needed to go.
They didn’t.
I started writing down the memories that bubbled up and then events that happened chronologically.
I quickly found that writing about my childhood was depressing. If I thought it was a downer, why would someone who doesn’t know me want to read it?
So I went back and forth. Why don’t I write about the last twenty years and ignore my childhood? I found myself spending more time fact-checking timelines than actually completing any chapters. When I did write, it rambled on—kind of like now.
With all modesty, I have had an interesting, active life over these sixty-six years.
The problem with writing a memoir at this point in my life is that I still have much to learn, experience, and explore. That may sound ridiculous at “my age,” but it’s honest.
Always having something to look forward to is what keeps me going.
I was sharing my frustrations about memoir writing with my friend and writing coach when she asked if I had even considered writing fiction. Fiction offers the freedom to write, entirely using my imagination, about whatever I want without having to fact-check details or consider whether someone else remembers events differently.
I can dream up characters that never existed before with distinct backgrounds, personalities, and motivations. I can create how they connect with others, deal with conflict, evolve, and where it all happens.
Writing fiction allows me to tell a story that has never existed before, hopefully a great one.
I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, and the chance to bring to life a captivating story that was once a fleeting idea makes me smile.
It’s been a very long time since I considered writing fiction, but today, I’m all in. In just over an hour, I hashed out a quick outline, a beginning, a middle, and an end to a novel.
Yippee, and it was fun! I felt excited instead of drained.
The last time I achieved that with a non-fiction book idea was never. There’s my sign.
I’m ready to bring my characters (and the writer in me) to life. Today’s the day to begin.
Don’t worry; I’ll still be posting here every Friday. I always find myself with something to say about the real, unimagined world, whether from the past, present, or future.
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my posts and your comments.
Keep smiling!
xx
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