Thursday, June 14, 2012

six pages

I tried to write the book I was planning to write this summer, and it became immediately clear it wasn't going to happen.  I thought I was well enough, stable enough, having a sufficiently calm and neutral attitude towards the church.

Instead I'm writing what I can write--what I need to write.  It's the sort of obscenely self-indulgent autobiography I'd been hoping to avoid.  I am writing about recovery; about what happened--about getting help--about getting better.  Recovery, the slow and painful crawl.

I have six pages, and am picking up speed.  It is not good.  If anything good (writing wise) comes out of this, it will be after a serious refining fire.  It's very strange--I find myself writing in this weirdly detached voice I recognize from other biographies of child abuse--a hole in the world, a child called it.  This is what happened, we say.  This is just the best I can remember it, the simplest accuracy I can muster.  Except how the hell am I supposed to remember?  I was young, and had nothing else with which to compare my life.

Maybe I will be better when this is done.

Though, to spoil that deliciously melodramatic note, I actually feel better now.  Actively dealing with it is definitely better than not.

1 comment:

  1. Well, just make sure it is a good obscenely self-indulgent autobiography! :D