NaNoWriMo 2014

I am not a novelist.

I can't write fiction. I love to read fiction, but I can't write it.

Each year the month of November is devoted to writing your novel. The goal is to write 50,000 words in one month. There's a website and Facebook page to keep you motivated. You can log your word count each day. Heck, there are even prizes. 

I've consider doing it for 3 years. THREE YEARS. 

I signed up yesterday after reading their description of "novel" -- We define a novel as “a lengthy work of fiction.” Beyond that, we let you decide whether what you’re writing falls under the heading of “novel.” In short: If you believe you’re writing a novel, we believe you’re writing a novel, too. 

Okay, so basically I can write anything I want and call it a novel for the purposes of this event. 

I did the math. It's close to 1700 words a day. Uhm -- that's a lot of words to all come from my head.

So wish me luck. I'm starting my memoir as a novel this month. I'm changing names to protect the guilty -- for the time being.

I've got 677 words so far.

A Little Shameless Self-Promotion

A couple of months ago I went out on an artistic limb. I entered a memoir writing contest. The guidelines were pretty simple -- write the opening paragraph of your own memoir, but limit it to 150 words.

The timing on this was interesting because I'd just recently been pondering a personal memoir. I've thought about it for years, and clearly this blog is memoir driven. But the idea of diving into an entire book is intimidating to say the least. The contest felt like a nudge.

I wrote my paragraph and had my husband and a close friend read it. Caroline was wonderfully helpful. It's so nice to be surrounded by smart, talented people. I submitted the entry, and put it out of my mind.

Women's Memoirs, the blog hosting the contest, contacted me to let me know they had received my entry and to ask how I'd found out about them. Apparently they were inundated with entries, so they broke the winners down into groups -- honorable mentions, bronze, silver, gold, and grand prize winners.

Yesterday I received an email telling me I was a gold winner! 

I am truly excited and proud to have been selected. Today I'm sharing my entry with you all, and I hope you'll have a chance to check out some of the other award winning paragraphs at Women's Memoirs.

“Comprehending Chaos”

I’ve been in the sun too long. As I walk into the barn, I am temporarily blinded. The bright sun followed by the sudden shift to the dark barn causes my retinas to temporarily shut down. She is farther back in the barn. Beckoning me. It is cooler in the barn, but stuffy, making it difficult to breathe. I weave my way to the back of the barn where she is waiting for me. She is smiling. I am still unaware of the dangers in that smile. [...Later I will come to understand her smile is maniacal, not friendly.] I cannot know that what is about to happen will alter my life and perceptions for years to come. I cannot know that I will tuck these events deep into the recesses of my mind for more than 30 years.

(Editor's comments -- Melanie’s opening is impressively chilling.  She skillfully weaves palpable details, such as the dim light and stuffiness in the barn, with the mysterious “she” who beckons the narrator.  She might hold back (delete) the italicized sentence below, and let the reader slowly realize that the smile is maniacal, not friendly, which would add to the suspense.)

Thanks to all of you who have been reading, following, and commenting on my blog for over 5 years. You are my compassionate witnesses.

linking up with 31 Days of Writing

Writing Memoir

People have been telling me to do it for years. I've wanted it finished for years. A memoir. The telling of my history. Not because I'm famous or have done something amazing, but because I have a story to tell (just like everyone does), and it would feel good (and maybe help someone else?) to have it neatly chronicled and available for perusal.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I just finished reading Emily Wierenga's Atlas Girl -- a lyrical memoir of her life thus far. She is blessed to have relationships that made it possible to seek her family's help in writing her story.

I do not have that. While it would be beneficial to gain information from my extended family regarding my history, that is not something we discuss. We don't discuss much of anything on the rare occasions when we do meet. 

Part of the problem in writing in memoir is how to handle the inevitable collateral damage. Other people will be impacted -- maybe even hurt -- by the telling of my story. And I don't want there to be anymore damage done.

The other, and perhaps more troubling, aspect of memoir writing for me is going through it all again. I see myself spreading out all of my journals and printing off everything in my computer. Reading through all of it again and trying to find a sequence and order for it. What I can't fathom is how to do all that without getting sucked into it again. How to focus on it well enough to write a book -- A BOOK! -- and not become so horrified, absorbed, and depressed by it all that I don't lose what I've gained. 

So I'm asking for a favor in all of this rambling. Will you pray for me? Will you ask God to tell me what He wants me to do? Will you ask Him to guide and protect me if writing a memoir is His plan?

I don't ask for help very often. Rarely irl and almost never here in this spot, but I could you use your support and prayers. So thank you.

Blessings.

Red Writing Hood -- Saying without Saying

This week, focus on dialogue and body language to set a scene or move a story forward, limiting your use of narration. You have 450 words, beginning with the line: His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.



(warning: adult content)
His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke.

“Of course, I believe you. I have to. You’re my daughter.” Not exactly the answer she’d been looking for. Was it better than having him say, “No. Absolutely not”?

She hadn’t expected denial, but she had hoped for compassion. It didn’t occur to her that she would get obligation.

Watching him sit with his arms covering himself, she said, “So you believe me when I say he raped me?”

“I believe you believe that’s what happened.”

A knife twisted in her heart and she began to shake.

“Oh, you’re so cold! Here’s a blanket,” her mother said, pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around Mel, as if a blanket could soothe the gashes in her soul.

She hated that these conversations always left her speechless, but it was as if the connectors between her brain and mouth had been severed. She couldn’t utter any words.

Her husband jumped in with suggestions. “We are going to have to do something about this, because it changes everything.”

Her father continued to purse his lips, as he removed his glasses – a sign that he was annoyed. Removing his glasses was his “tell”. He did it when lecturing if something was distracting him from the moment. He did it when he needed to buy time. Her mother sat across the room wringing her hands in her lap, glancing frantically from Mel to her father. Like a spectator at a tennis match.

“Oh, are you sure, Mel?” she said.

“Yes,” she responded, although in reality she wasn’t sure of anything right now.

This is not the way a script would play out on a tv show.

A daughter would tell her parents that she had been raped by her sister’s husband, and they would be horrified – jump to her defense. It would fall to her to calm them down. Keep them from doing anything they might regret. There would be shock, anger, grief, panic for what this would mean. The rapist would be verbally assaulted. Lambasted. His character denigrated.

But no, not in this house. In this house her father just kept sitting there waiting for her to tell him what to do. Saying without saying, he didn’t believe her at all, but rather felt obligated to placate her.

“I felt that I should tell you. I don’t know what the answer is.” What she didn’t say is how she was counting on him to have an answer. That she thought it was his job to address this horror.

But his crossed arms said everything.

link up at Red Writing Hood

RemembRED -- Comprehending Chaos

Comprehending Chaos is the story of my battle to overcome the far reaching effects of childhood sexual abuse. Beginning at 4 years old, I was physically, emotionally, and sexually abused by a variety of family members and friends including an elderly aunt, a female cousin, and one of my father’s college students. Although I grew up in the Bible belt, the daughter of a minister/professor, it was not until I reached middle age that I began to tell of the abuse I had suffered. I recount the retrieval of memories and the agonizing experience of flashbacks and anxiety attacks with authenticity and brutal honesty. I share the struggle to come to grips with my family’s inability to grasp reality or show compassion for my experiences, and the choices I was faced to make to finally move to a place of true healing. This is not just the story of abuse, but the story of one woman’s move from victim to survivor to compassionate witness.

The Prompt:RemembRED – Pitch Us

Memoir can be intimidating for writers. You’re relating actual events, portraying real people, and there are years of material to sift through.

Those years of material can seem overwhelming when looked at as a whole, or they might seem underwhelming.

Have you had a rollercoaster ride, filled with ups and downs that may have left other people screaming in their seats? Perhaps your life has been more of a merry-go-round, the same scenes arising again and again, the shifts less noticeable.

Either way, you have a story to tell, and the way you tell it is what makes it compelling. Distilling your memoir into a 200 word pitch will give you the chance to really focus on what you want to share with your readers about your life story.

This week pretend we have a book contract here just waiting for someone to sign (and we wish we did, believe me!) Pitch your memoir in 200 words or less and come back this Tuesday to link up. 

link up at Write on Edge