I’ve finished the first chapter of my memoir. Or maybe I should say, a chapter. The outline of the second chapter is done, and ready for writing. It is writing itself, really, which is something I hadn’t counted on. Since this book is based on an already completed essay, it is staggering to see the bigger body of work take formation. Is this typical rhetoric for a virgin book writer?
As the essay came to be, I thought I’d included all facts, memories, actions, emotions, only to find out there was so much more to be said, felt, reflected upon. Even without knowing the fate of the final project, I am confident this is part of my life that was not lived in vain. It happened, and it will be the pivotal experience that all others can not compare. I will be known for this book, as I am known for the essay. There will be no mistaking my voice, imagery, perception. I can’t tell you how I know, it is not ego or wishful thinking; it is destiny, of that there is no question. I will ride the wave until it dissipates, and be grateful for the journey, no matter how shattering.
There will be things that shock my family, even hurt them. Facts they thought they knew, but were in fact what I wanted them to believe. Should I prepare the masses for quaking revelations? I am not malicious in my silence; mostly, I’ve been silent to protect those who’ve experienced more than their share of emotional burden. Upon the completion of this book, the silence will be no more. This terrifies me in a way that I haven’t been before, even while living my tragedy; however, this memoir is about honesty, painful, brutal honesty, and so I won’t withhold truth.
Pray for me.
