by Gwendolyn Plano
We all have stories to tell--of how we got to where we are now. Without much prompting, we share these travels - and sometimes our dreams. Whether our listener is a friend or stranger, we long to connect, to somehow bridge the mysterious divide. For memoir writers, the motivation is much the same, but the process of writing can be a journey in and of itself.
When I began writing my book, I expected to simply tell my story: a farm girl goes to the big city, falls in love, marries, experiences tragedy, falls in love again, marries but then knows abuse, and along the way has four beautiful children. As the pages unfolded though, I realized that my story was everyone's story. The details of my journey are unique to me of course, but the emotions accompanying those details are universal. We all know sorrow, fear, or regret; and, we all travel through life trying to make sense of it all.
I've read many memoirs this year, and with each I have discovered new friends. I know them through their struggles and their celebrations. Though I have not experienced the high mountains of Colorado, for instance, I feel as though I have--after reading Gin Getz's The Color of the Wild. Her quest became my own as winter became spring and the mountains burst with life. And, now as she publishes her second book, it is as though I'm awaiting a family reunion. There is so much I want to know, such as how the drought affected life on that soaring terrain.
Prior to reading Larry Gray's A Boy From Down East, I didn't know what it was like to grow up in a neighborhood in the Southeast, where children spent their afternoons playing baseball in the fields. But I related to the youthful innocence and the stories that bridged generations. I had no neighborhood on the farm where I spent my youth, but I discovered that Gray's questions were like mine, and that realization captivated me within the first few paragraphs of the book.
When I began writing my book, I expected to simply tell my story: a farm girl goes to the big city, falls in love, marries, experiences tragedy, falls in love again, marries but then knows abuse, and along the way has four beautiful children. As the pages unfolded though, I realized that my story was everyone's story. The details of my journey are unique to me of course, but the emotions accompanying those details are universal. We all know sorrow, fear, or regret; and, we all travel through life trying to make sense of it all.
I've read many memoirs this year, and with each I have discovered new friends. I know them through their struggles and their celebrations. Though I have not experienced the high mountains of Colorado, for instance, I feel as though I have--after reading Gin Getz's The Color of the Wild. Her quest became my own as winter became spring and the mountains burst with life. And, now as she publishes her second book, it is as though I'm awaiting a family reunion. There is so much I want to know, such as how the drought affected life on that soaring terrain.
Prior to reading Larry Gray's A Boy From Down East, I didn't know what it was like to grow up in a neighborhood in the Southeast, where children spent their afternoons playing baseball in the fields. But I related to the youthful innocence and the stories that bridged generations. I had no neighborhood on the farm where I spent my youth, but I discovered that Gray's questions were like mine, and that realization captivated me within the first few paragraphs of the book.
Memories can open doors within our hearts. Sometimes the images become a great expanse of possibility, perhaps forgotten over time. As we pursue these glimpses of the past, a story unfolds which maybe we have not heard before.
Maya Angelou wrote that, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." I now understand the agony of which she wrote, for the story ultimately is not mine (or yours)--it belongs to all of us. Each of us simply holds a version of it temporarily.
Maya Angelou wrote that, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." I now understand the agony of which she wrote, for the story ultimately is not mine (or yours)--it belongs to all of us. Each of us simply holds a version of it temporarily.
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