As you have seen, I am a fish on the shore right now, flipping and gasping for words to write. About anything. I’ve learned at these times to read until my eyes fall out. Others are not in this place. They’re producing page-turning material worthy of our consumption and consideration.
One such soul is fellow blogger and faith-er, Laura Jean Truman. In a writer cop-out for which I seek neither escape nor make excuse, I share her better words here. Go, read in pride as I did, how Advent is a time uniquely prepared for both the prophet and the artist. For the artist-as-prophet.
They speak the same language. Maybe that’s why so much of the bible is poetry? Yup. I think that’s probably it.
Laura Jean, thank you. My readers will too, I believe.
To read a memoir is to sit in someone’s living room drinking beer and eating Cheetos as someone outlines plans to save the world, or at least make it a little less shitty.
Except for a few cases, their stories are rarely intended for their own self-aggrandizement. Instead, they act as a window, a prism of sorts that divide up a fully lived life into its constituent parts for our amusement and awe. Once we happen upon these parts, it is for us to find ourselves within them.
Although not entirely without a modicum of gravitas, I am embarrassingly unknown. A small-town guy writing for other little guys, but with a tale to tell. What I can offer is a fireside tale told by a friend you just haven’t met yet. A regular guy with a story for other non-luminaries out there.
For my part, there’s an unquenchable thirst to read the journals of other next-door Joe’s like me. Those who put in writing what had previously been stuck in memories, photo albums, iPhones, shoe boxes, or desk drawers. Ordinary people become extraordinary through telling their story. We become greater than the sum of our parts as we are willing to share something of the remarkable, the redemptive, the road made a little straighter, the discoveries we’ve made along the way. Memoir is the result of someone’s self-discovery in writing.
These stories invite me to ask, how am I also the statesman? The conqueror? The activist? The poet? The World War II code breaker? The rock star? Can it be that my horizons grow in reading the exploits of those great ones of whom I can only dream? Do their larger-than-life stories strike a chord, even a strident one, with folks-next-door like me? Like you? What is it about their stories that make us buy the books, makes women sigh and men jealous?
When I first dove into The Seven Storey Mountain,
was surprised to discover Thomas Merton, an artsy intellectual, Trappist contemplative who, on his worst day, was hipper and smarter than I will ever be. I’ve read, jaws agape, of the jaw-dropping exploits of British navy explorer Ernest Shackleton. I soil myself at the notion of being anywhere near the same impossible scenario. I get lost in parking lots, let alone a frozen continent significantly larger than the country of my birth.
To read of Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., even Steve Jobs, requires a suspension of disbelief since I’m normally polishing off a chapter in between building retaining walls, preening what’s left of my hair or pealing potatoes for dinner. But then I discovered something, or rather, someone(s).
A good memoir is one in which a writer who, although more famous and established than myself, can bring themselves closer to my ilk. They are just regular folks, or see themselves that way (even if their bestseller status denies them the qualification). They are “small,” but with big stories. Anne Lamott for example, whose disarmingly genuine and authentically humorous depictions of her coming to faith give courage to those like me who would venture to do the same.
Kathleen Norris, whose writing and teaching career places her in a broader orbit, still writes for artsy-fartsies like me; those who consider themselves “thinking contemplatives” and a little rough around the edges. Another example might be naturalist philosopher, poet-academic and farmer, Wendell Berry. Now, there’s a guy I can relate to – a farmer who writes poetry – good poetry, and novels that bespeak our common life and run-of-the-mill experiences that hold within them the hearty smell of dung in the boots and the glint of heaven.
The idea that someone with whom I might share the frozen food aisle at Safeway has written a personal retrospective, complete with spiritual ups and downs, relationships won and lost and the polished and buffed exteriors that don’t always line up with their guts, is tacitly satisfying. Taken together, these individuals have emboldened me to see my own journey, a little pedestrian and squishy by most standards, as still mineable for universal truths, frequent tears and the occasional belly laugh. They encourage me to find out who I am becoming and write in the process.
And this is the end of my beginning. I may not be famous enough to dwell among whomever is the star du jour. I may not be old enough to be particularly interesting – unless you ask my boys for whom I am an animated skeleton with opinions. I may not be young enough to be on the cutting edge of anything. Most anything sharp about my edges has long ago been dulled to a coffee spoon. I’m smart, but not quite smart enough to produce those clever turns of phrase about the deep stuff destined for the thick books sold in packs of two, the other being a dictionary.
Courageous? Perhaps, but not quite brave or selfless enough to reach out quivering hands into a crying world like those grand souls whose hands have done so before, often at their peril. Their tales provide the templates from which I glean my own courage.
Smart and edgy like Merton? Working on it. Leader with bravery and character like Shackleton? Um, sure, let’s go with that. Articulate, and passionately dedicated like King or Ghandi? I do good, I guess.
They say the devil’s in the details (whomever they is). But, ultimately, God authors the story. I get to put together the puzzle. And who doesn’t love a good puzzle?
I love to write. Whether it loves me back is not for me to decide. The jury’s still out on that one. No matter. It doesn’t change the fact that I am compelled to tell people my story. Well, bits of my story. Bits of my unfolding story.
Why, you may ask? Because stories unite us. Jesus loved them. He had a particular attachment to stories. Parables to be exact. Parables are simultaneously beguiling and didactic. They amuse as they teach. They are immediate in their images and settings. It’s like we get to be in on the joke. And, their disarming specificity is surprisingly universal.
Once a story is rooted in the ground, where we all walk; once there is an address, a face, names, insider talk, maybe a joke or two, it becomes magnetic. They bring us together in ways few other things can. They are the campfire songs of our childhood, the foolish dares of youth, our first kiss, or broken heart, our first-child elations, the decimation of loss. All this and more is common to us all.
It is for these reasons I love memoir. It’s like someone letting you rummage through their sock drawer. There’s always a gem or two to be found in the oddest places.
And I think I’ve got one (or more) in me somewhere. It’s been floating around for years trying to find its way out. But, in order to do so with authenticity and putting my best foot forward, I need your help.
I’m so thankful to all of you, my readers, for your ongoing support of this blog. It’s gratifying to know that my emerging soul, rife as it is with the bullet holes of life, is of enough interest to draw in an onlooker or two!
My invitation remains open. Join me in the journey toward a story on paper? Share with me your impressions. What has moved you? Delighted you? Disgusted or enraged you? Your thoughts mean everything to me. As do you.
So, dear friends, I need your help. I’ve had a book percolating in me for some time now. But I need your help in pulling it out and getting it down. I’m inviting you, my dear readers, to help guide me on this journey.
Many of you have faithfully followed along with my often random, esoteric ramblings, with grace and dedication. I am utterly gratified to be in this with you. Truly.
Of the pieces you’ve read, what has struck you most? Deepest? What are the bits and bobs that have most touched you, made you laugh, or cry, or angry? I mean, the kinds of bits you’d read more of were they to find themselves between covers? So, this is an open invitation to you, my beloved readers, to walk with me toward some as yet undetermined goal of a memoir.
I appreciate you all so much. Your input is invaluable in the discernment process for this little project. Whaddya say? Can ya help a guy out?”