Actual Outcomes

So dressed for success

The thing people fail to warn you about when it comes to your memoir is how much you'll cry. The first draft, I didn't do much until I finished. Then I spent a few hours drinking beer and sobbing. Then the second and third drafts ripped open wounds I was unaware I still had. I even edited a section about happy things and couldn't stop crying. It got to the point I couldn't open my word document without cringing.

And then I started reading sections out loud; to my sister, to my friends, to my mother. I read certain sections so much my eyes felt like they'd bleed. Then, I read a chapter where I was bullied to the point I attempted suicide, to a classroom.

Then, I prepared the first chapter to present in front of a room full of adults. And this, is how my presentation on December 6th, started.

I read the first chapter, and near the second page...I felt the lump in my throat. My hands took on a tremor. When I looked up (like you should during all public speaking engagements), every single eye in the room was on me.

It was hard to breathe. The small voice in the back of my head kept saying, You're just reading a book, you're just reading...But I wasn't. It was my life and it felt like I was eight years old watching my sister get beat by my father.

I sat next to the president of the
organization. Intense, no?

I didn't fully cry, but I got choked up and recovered by saying, "As you can tell, I'm still a little sensitive about all of this," and continued talking. I told the group about the presentations I did where young girls reached out and told me about the horrors they're currently living through. About the fact that they hurt themselves. I talked about the drop-out rate and how we as a society need to step in and try to guide the kids who are growing up in broken homes.

When I finished, I was surrounded by adults who hugged me, called me brave, and strong, and further confirmed that I am doing the right thing. I met a man who is involved with a high school program, and they may be able to bring me to a new district. A lot of it is in the air, but I can breathe a little easier. When I finally got in my car, I was still shaking.

There is a huge difference presenting in front of adults verses teens. I felt like I had significantly less room for error and rambling. But at the same time, hopefully it is these adults that will help spread the message that life can get better. Even if you live in a crappy household where all you're told is that you'll never amount to anything, it can get better. People will tell you your whole life that THIS (failure) is your projected outcome. It's not true. My sisters and I grew up with awful parents. We all graduated high school. We all got college degrees. We're not alcoholics,  homeless, drug addicts. We are functioning members of society.

But even with all of that, when the presentation wrapped up, I was presented with an award in my name. Suddenly, everything that I've been doing became real. Because I grew up in that environment. I'm doing what I love to do. For the first time in a million years, I'm happy.

And this is the moment everything became real

Moral of this post and of my presentation is this: No matter your circumstances, you can amount to something. You can be anything you want to be. And once you're there, you can help other people amount to whatever they want to be, too.

Happy Monday.

The Proper Technique for Hugging

I judge people by the way they hug others...especially by the way they hug me.

This is a good and acceptable hug from my friend D.J.

While this may seem strange to you, have you ever really paid attention to the away people touch you, or you allow them to touch you, when embracing? Ever since high school, I've paid a lot of attention. This past Saturday, I was at the mountain, getting reacquainted with people I haven't seen in six months, and giving lots of hugs. Many, sadly, were sub par.

The No Hug
That moment where someone opens their arms to you, and you step away? Those are the worst hugs. Not only because it's awkward to step away, but usually because there's a reason. For those of you who don't know me, or haven't betaed my memoir, my relationship with my mother is difficult, to say the least.
During one of my trips home for college, she met me at the airport, and went to hug me. I stepped back and said, "Since when did we become a hugging family?"
It's never left me.
Out of all of the hugs you can give someone, the no hug is the worst.

Matty and me
This was the only picture I could
find that'sclose to a one armed hug

The One Armed Hug
You know when you haven't seen someone in a long while, and you can kind of remember them, but kind of not? That's what this hug is like. You wrap one arm around a person, while the other hangs limp at your side. You don't really touch each other when you embrace it's kind of a, "Hey, nice to see you," and flee.
I hate these hugs. They're so impersonal, I wonder why giving them at all?
Though, I do use them as a sort of vengeance. If I don't like you, if I don't trust you, or if you're only giving me a one armed hug, you better believe you only get one arm in return!

Attack huggin my friend Jen

The Attack Hug
They never see it coming. Most times, you're able to catch them off balance, then you topple over into a pile of snow. It's fun, it can be frisky, and if the person has good response time, they hug back, or try to.
Plus, they make for super fun pictures.
Then, as with any attack, you're free to scamper about your business.


The Bro Bump
That weird greeting where two guys see each other, link hands, then bump chests? Yea, that's a bro bump. I love these, but because I'm a girl I rarely get them. Brent, an instructor at the mountain last season, used to bro bump me all the time (after I kind of complained about not getting bro bumps because I'm a girl). It was the highlight of my day. Some thought it was weird.
The bro bump is highly underrated.
Can we make it cross genders, please?

Laura and me at my 23 birthday

The Side Hug
For some reason, you just can't meet face on. You may have tried to give a nice hug, but somehow, I end up hugging your hip. It's awkward, it's probably mildly painful, hopefully it's fast, but if you hug with two arms, I won't hold a vendetta.
But next time, I'll try to angle myself a little better.

Partner in Cime and his gf, Sarah

The 'I'm So In Love With You' Hug
 I'm not going to lie, this is the best hug known to man. It's where both sets of arms wrap around each other, there's usually some eye closing involved, and you fit together perfectly. You fully feel pulled into this person, and for a second, you don't want to let go.
It's a beautiful, beautiful moment where both people know they're safe, and neither pulls away too early.

These hugs are wonderful and reassuring.

The General Two Armed Hug
This by far is the best hug. It usually lasts about three seconds (I'm getting scientific here). It's where both parties wrap both arms around each other, there's some full body contact, and then you smile, separate, and say, "Hi" or "Bye" or "I've missed you" or "Let's get pizza."
It's appropriate for all occasions, and the best part? It makes you feel loved?
It can turn into the I'm So In Love With You Hug, or you can leave it at a two armed hug. Bottom line, if you're not hugging me with two arms, I will complain about your hugging abilities henceforth.

The Multiple People Hug
There's nothing wrong with some group action going on. It's not as exclusive as a two-person hug, but it can still be awesome.

My niece, Mackenzie, and nephew, Caleb

There are a million other hugs to offer, depression hugs, stability hugs, I'm so glad you're alive hugs, but for a general tutorial on hugs, I feel like this suffices.

If you've never considered your hugs, I hope you do now.

Censorship

I'm not usually one to censor things. I'm not usually even one to have tact and keep my thoughts in my head, so much so that Laura is sometimes afraid to go out in public with me. Usually, I'm the one swearing up a storm, even if there's a six year old in front of me.

Last week, I got a nice eye opener.

Censorship:
It feels like someone placing a hand over your mouth

The portion of my memoir that I'd selected to read for my bullying presentation used the f-bomb two or three times. There were also some other questionable things, that after consulting the teacher, we agreed that entire sentences should be deleted, and if not deleted, reworded. When we finished editing, we had what we deemed a PG rated, middle school classroom appropriate, piece of non fiction. Something, completely un-Lynne like.

Then we discussed important things (like politics, before the election).

Days later I arrived at the school, and she printed off my chapter. I read through it (skimming mostly) mildly dejected that my beautiful words had been cut. I felt it took away from the intensity of the piece. As a writer, I was offended that duct tape was being placed over my hands. I've been influenced by strong women like Kerry Cohen who go out and tell their stories to a room full of strangers. Still, I sucked up my pride, did my presentation on bullying, and then I read the piece that we had so adamantly deemed PG.

Me with one of my slides :)

And while I read, I could hear the words through the ears of a sixth, seventh, and eighth grade girl. I saw jaws drop. I saw eyes pop open. I knew their thoughts were mainly, "Am I hearing this in school?" Part of my pausing after reading was so the girls could digest what I'd read. Part of it, was so that I could digest what I'd read.

It turned out that my piece was still intense. It still got my point across. There were no f-bombs. Several suggestive sentences had been taken out. But the piece itself held true to the story, and I was suddenly, very, very happy with the changes we'd made.

Yes, Kerry Cohen talks in front of those strangers. Those strangers are usually adults. The strangers I was talking in front of were young, impressionable girls. Yes, I want them to read what they want to read. BUT, maybe they should be at least mildly braced for things they hear.

I think the moral of this post, is that you should know when to censor yourself, and when to let 'er rip.

School Bullying

On Wednesday November 7, 2012, I was invited to Ms. Varner's ASP class. I prepared for about two weeks, doing minor interviews with friends, doing research on my own life, and assembling a power point presentation. (Somehow, without being in college anymore, I forgot how much I love power point!)

Ms. Varner in her classroom

While the groundwork for the presentation had been laid, I still wasn't exactly sure what I was going to say to the class, how to really offer them that, Wow, this may have been life changing, moment. Finally, when my time came, I stood in front of the class and said, "My name is Lynne. Was anyone here for my last presentation?" A few hands shot into the air, and I smiled. I was suddenly among friends. "Well, that one focused a bit more on my home life. Today, I'm here to do a presentation on bullying."

Osteo-Biflex, Eeyore, and a chapter
from my memoir. The things
that helped me present :)

I talked a little bit about who I am now; how I take Osteo-Biflex, and how since I was like 13 years old, I've had my Eeyore in my bed, or at least in my room, every night.

From there, I told stories, about boys who'd been bullied and turned into bullies. I talked about my sister being called Buckie-the-beaver before she got braces.

I discussed with the girls what they consider bullying, whether or not they think it differs from the way males do it verses females. One girl raised her hand, and told the class about getting calls on the weekends from girls saying, "We're having so much fun at this sleepover, why aren't you here? Oh, that's right, because we didn't invite you!" She finished with, "I don't understand why they were so mean, I never did anything to them." Most of the class agreed that girls are more calculated when they bully, that they truly intend to hurt people, where-as they feel boys are more physical (shoving, pushing, tripping).

Then, I talked about who I was at their age. How my house was disgusting, how my mother was never home. I asked them if they would have been friends with me, because while I looked clean that day, I was probably a mess at their age.

Closer to the end, I read an except from my memoir, A Walk to the Ocean which had to be slightly censored and more PG appropriate (I will cover my feelings on censorship hopefully Wednesday). The segment was about being bullied in college by my roommates and co-workers, to the point I tried to kill myself. The line I finished on said, "When I got home, my roommates continued to ridicule me that night, and for the remainder of the summer," then I paused to allow them to digest what I'd read. "When you say mean and hurtful things to people, you never know what's going on in their home lives. Take a look around the room," (I had them sitting in a half arc so they could see me and each other), "you don't know what's going on, whether or not people are getting along with their parents, fighting with their siblings. You don't know if they're being hurt at home, or even if their parents are home. I grew up in a flea infested house, where maggots were growing in the back room, and my mother wasn't ever home." I paused again as the girls looked around at each other. Some heads bowed, some faces turned red. "I came to school because it was clean, because it was safe. You don't know what will push someone over the edge."

From there, I wrapped the presentation up, challenging the girls. I told them that this is middle school. I know they're not going to get along with everyone, or even like everyone. But, maybe, they can just say hi to someone they usually wouldn't. Maybe if they see someone sitting alone during lunch, they can sit with them.

After that, I went to go see my manager from UNE, and we chatted politics, and results from the election. When I returned to Claire's she had dinner waiting:

This looks like something out of a restaurant ad, no?

I was still smiling from the presentation. She asked for some follow up questions, and told me some that she would ask the following week.

A day or so later, I got a Facebook message from one of the girls in class. We've had a few exchanges since, but she was one of the girls who attended my last presentation. She thanked me for coming in, and also said, "My response to a question you asked is: I can honestly say I would be friends with you if we were the same age."

And for a time, I'm reminded, that this is what it's all about.

Happy Monday.

Let's Get Political

With the election coming up, I felt like it's okay for me to get political this once. So if you don't want to hear my views, come back Monday, I'll have a random Lynn(e) post about how financially overwhelmed I am.

Which kind of makes me feel like this

Otherwise, here are my thoughts.

Pretty, fireworks

When I was younger, I never appreciated being a citizen of the United States of America. I'd roll my eyes at football games when we'd play the National Anthem (even though I was in band), or say the Pledge of Allegiance. Sure, I'd take off my hat but the idea was lost on me. When Memorial, or Veteran's Day came up, yep I enjoyed the time off of school, but again, rolled my eyes, not truly appreciating where I lived. Even on the Fourth of July, I was only in it for the fireworks.

Then, in college, I started hearing stories. I heard about countries imposing a population cap (which I'm for) and enforcing sterilizations/abortions if families exceeded this cap (which I'm against). Most recently, I heard about a 14 year old girl in Pakistan who said she wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. The Taliban targeted her, and shot her in the head. Last I heard, she was recovering in another country in the hopes that she'll be safe there.

It's the first time in my life that a news paper article almost made me vomit on my work floor. Yes, things have gotten me emotional before, nauseous even, but this one pissed me off. First of all, if you need to gun down a 14 year old girl to prove how strong you are, you suck. Secondly, I'd never taken in and fully appreciated the fact that I live in America. If I want to be a doctor, a veterinarian, an athlete, an astronaut, a cowboy, etc, I can be. Not only that, but I get to CHOOSE whether or not I want to be a bum, atheist, religious, work at McDonald's, become a physicist, be a stay at home mom, be a prostitute, whatever. My family would support me (except for maybe that first and last one ;) ). I also get to help elect the President, and sometimes, I actually feel like my vote counts. In the country I live in, no one would gun me down for furthering my education, saying I don't like a someone in power, or doing what I want to do.

Somehow, the fact that all countries are not like this, managed and sometimes still manages to elude me.

The fact is, we live in the USA. Under no circumstances should people be FORCED to do things we don't want to do (except, you know, pay taxes. And even then, just go to New Hampshire, because they have no sales tax there). We aren't forced to stop going to school at a certain age. We aren't forced to use birth control, or to not use birth control. Though 18 year old males must register in case the draft comes back, we do not have a draft. Our young men are not thrust into violence. We aren't forced into ignorance, or abortions, or population caps. With the exception of laws (some of which are put in place for good reasons), we citizens live a very free life. All of these things (except for taxes) we get to choose.

As previously stated, I read articles about forced sterilizations, or abortions in some countries. I've also read articles where fourteen year old girls are repeatedly raped, and when the rape results in pregnancy, the girls must carry the child to term no matter if health risks are involved.

There was a storm coming in like 2006.
I really like this picture, still.

We live in a country where the topic of abortion is taboo, or if it's brought up, intense arguments ensue. This is partly why I wrote my memoir, and why I'm writing this post. In the safety of these fifty states, we've been blessed with so many more freedoms than other countries. But as soon as we start restricting those freedoms on things like marriage, or reproductive rights, we become a nation that is no better than those that force the public's hands. No one should force a pregnant fourteen year old girl to have a child. Plus, no one should force that fourteen year old girl to have an abortion, either. The decision should be up to her, possible therapists, and trusted adults. Only. Abortion, adoption, and having the child should all be on the table for her. All three options should be available to pregnant women, no matter their age or circumstance. This is not a ONE CHOICE SUITS ALL country.

As of right now, the reason I love the United States of America is because we get to choose what we want to do with our lives. Currently, we can choose our profession. We can choose whether or not we want to have children, or terminate our pregnancies. We can choose to enlist in the armed forces, or to work from home. None of these things are forced on us. We have all of these options in front of us that no one should be able to take away.

So, as long as I get my registration in on time and all that jazz, I will not be voting against gay marriage, because (according to http://www.divorcerate.org/) nearly half of first marriages, 70% of second marriages, and 75% of third marriages end in divorce. Clearly, we straight people know what the hell we're doing. Why not let gays and lesbians allow themselves the chaos that is marriage? Why not offer their partners health benefits so that when their firefighter husband or wife dies, they will be financially secure?

And when I get to vote, I will not be voting for Governor Romney not only because of the infamous 47% comment, but because as a self proclaimed religious man, I fear for women's reproductive rights if he were sworn in to office. We're all aware that Romney is anti-choice, and I fear that he will help with cutting Planned Parenthood's funding, an organization that helped save my life. Not only that, but during one of the debates, illegal immigration was brought up, and he suggested that immigrants should enlist in our army so that they have a chance to become American citizens. Yea, no. Unacceptable. Become a citizen first, find out why you love and want to protect this country, then enlist, IF and ONLY IF you want. Why would you serve a country, die for a country, you're not even a part of?

I'm not saying that Obama is perfect. I'm actually still pretty pissed at him for allowing Shell to try to drill in the Arctic. I'm not even saying that I think you should vote for Obama, because I think you should vote for whomever you feel will do the best as a President of the United States. But I will say that there is a HUGE difference between terminating a pregnancy, thereby erasing the potential for a child, and walking into a four year old's house and stabbing them in the face. (This statement is for those who attack me on Twitter saying that abortion is killing/murdering a child.)

Wonder how long this ink will take
to wash off my hand?

There is a lot at stake this election. Are you ready to cast your vote?

Harry Potter is Demonic

Welcome to the magical world

Sorry for the delay on this post, but my sister was a slacker, and the library still didn't have any Harry Potter books (crazy, right?). Nonetheless, here we go.

Holding the DVDs because I don't own the book(s)
Also, I live in a basement. Much like
how Harry lived in a closet...

As a young and impressionable youth, I found my footing in the world though the threshold of a church. I went to youth group every Wednesday, played tambourine in the church band, and attended church camp during the summer months. For a long time, I didn't swear, didn't drink, didn't do drugs, or have sex. Really, I was an all around upstanding kid (aside from that time I locked my friend in the basement...).

One day as I was walking in, the pastor's wife got my attention. (I can't remember exactly how the conversation went, so I'm going to use the CREATIVE portion of creative non fiction so you guys get the idea.)

She had soft wavy brown hair and large glasses that completely covered her eyes. "You like to read, right?" she asked.

"I do," I said. "I just heard about these books, Harry Potter, have you read them?"

A worried look crossed her face, and then she said, "I've heard of them, and they're demonic. You shouldn't read them. They have magic in them, and magic comes from the devil."

"Okay," I said, and I took the message home to my sisters. "Don't read Harry Potter, you'll go to Hell!"

So...rather than read the books, years later, my oldest sister took me to the movies, and from there I continued watching (most of) the rest of them (I still actually haven't seen the last one, though twitter and Facebook has already ruined the end for me). In 2011, though I wasn't a huge Harry Potter fan (yea, sure the movies were fun, but sometimes I lost interest) I drove to Orlando, Florida for Leaky Con's LitDay to meet amazing authors, and hear panels about the industry.

The atmosphere was infectious. They were releasing the last Harry Potter movie, those in the audience were going to be the first ones to watch it, before the rest of America even got the chance. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, and lost in the mass of kids and adults dressed like they were ready to attend Hogwarts, I found myself getting excited, too.

Though I'd originally planned to bail out after the authorly panels were over, I found myself in a cushioned seat in a large room as the crowd hushed. Arthur Levine (the man who edited all of the Harry Potter books) entered the room. As he took the podium, cheers erupted, I'm pretty sure some people in the audience cried, and I looked at them like they were crazy (or, possibly, devil worshipers).

"When I met Jo, she looked hungry. As many of you know she was on foodstamps..." and from there he told the tale of meeting a starving author, with kids, with a lot to lose...She'd been rejected by several publishers and agents. No one believed in her story, but she did.

My sister. She is sad, too.

He told the audience about how Harry was hungry; he lived in a closet, was hated by the family he lived with, and he wanted food, and friends, and to belong somewhere. He was hungry for other people, hungry to actually experience life. The wizardry was just an added perk.

As he spoke, I had that Oh my God, moment. The one that tells me I spent x-amount of years missing out on something big because my church, a church I loved whole heartedly, told me those books were devil worshiping. I missed out on reading a great series, on being a part of something that truly moved people, and connected them to each other. Most of all, I missed out on something that got people and kids to read.

By proxy, my sister also missed out because I was a zealous Christian girl, upholding the word of God (nowhere in the Bible does it say don't read Harry Potter). (She is still kind of bitter about this one...)

All Harry wanted to was to be loved. In the end, I think that's what a lot of kids these days want. I know that's what I want. Well, that, and a nice package of mint oreos...

As I've been working on my memoir, I've been becoming increasingly angry with the things the church told me. For the record, I am still a Christian. I still pray on a daily basis, and love God (or my Higher Power for those of you who attend Alanon or AA).

Within the last year, I've become adamantly pro-choice and am becoming more vocal about it by the day. In College, one of my friends jumped from the Mackinaw Bridge, and I stopped believing suicides go to Hell. A boy who helped lead me toward God recently came out in the last few years, and thus, I stopped believing gays go to Hell, because he was the most passionate Christian I have ever met. The church taught me a lot about life, and I'm slowly starting to see that what I was told may have been vastly incorrect. (I'll be taking some of these topics on through this blog, hopefully you'll stick around through the journey.)

After Mr. Levine's speech, I no longer think that Harry Potter is demonic. Though I still didn't stick around to watch the movie with everyone, or attend the dance party, one of my life goals is to read the books, and at long last take part in something that has influenced my generation.

The moral of this post is: don't be afraid to read. Don't be afraid to be a part of something. Books are there to help you find what you're looking for, to test your beliefs (in a safe, non-cocaine type of environment), and take you on adventures the laws of gravity don't allow you to.

And for those of you writing the books, keep writing. Never stop pushing boundaries because your words may someday help save lives.

Happy Monday.

Meeting Claire

I met Claire Downs, the main character of After Elizabeth, in North Carolina, just before I went crazy (possibly while I was going crazy).

I've always been fascinated with smokers, especially because there are so many song lyrics about them. (On my iTunes, I actually have a cigarette playlist made up.) It's strange because I grew up loathing when my parents smoked, riding like a dog with my head out the window of the car, or leaving the room when they lit up in my presence. It's gotten to the point, when I visit Michigan, my mother knows better than to try to smoke with me in the car or in her house. Personally, I don't smoke...but I do have three unopened packs of cigarettes in the dashboard of my car in case I ever decide to take up the habit.

Yep, had these since North Carolina.
Smoking is gross.

Either way, one day I was sitting there, thinking about how strange it would be to see a girl in a neon pink sports bra running and smoking a cigarette. I started writing about Claire before she even had a name. Instead of being a girl as I wrote, I was a boy checking out a decently hot chick. I remember sitting on the couch and reading aloud to the people I considered friends (like I said, I went crazy), and they agreed that this girl sounded hardcore. I saved the document, and went to sleep with a massive erection. Wait, in real life I'm a girl...and I like boys. Okay, whew.

In the morning, when I checked my computer, the document was gone, and the page worth of stuff I'd written disappeared with it. But the memory of this girl never left me. I didn't care if what I'd written was saved. I just knew she existed, and I loved her, though now, she may never resurface.

Fast forward about six months. My Sister's Memories is on submission, and getting page and manuscript requests (cool! My query letter doesn't suck!). Sadly, each and every one gets rejected (sadface, my writing does). I tell myself that I'm not going to write another novel until My Sister's Memories, Character Defects, Igniting a Firestarter, and my memoir go through a hard round of editing. I only end up editing My Sister's Memories and receive more rejections, some with feedback, and for the first time, I start to hope...maybe...maybe...I have something worthwhile here.

In the meantime, I work my day job and get invited to a middle school to speak. One Wednesday morning, I drive to Fryeburg and talk to kids who ask me about cutting, depression, and coping mechanisms. I am humbled and awestruck with every single student I meet. We take pictures together, I offer candy, and I come back the next week. And the week after that.

They refuse to leave my head. The girl who smokes refuses to leave my head.

My sister and I
Her approval of my writing means a lot to me :)

On May 29, 2012, I sit down at my computer, and see a girl typing with a friend the way Kellie and I used to. I see a girl read a message that says something like, I'm sorry, I can't handle this, the same message I'd received when a good friend tried to kill himself a thousand miles away from me. And then, for the first time since I'd written about a girl smoking a cigarette and running, I saw Claire Downs emerge in the aftermath of her best friend killing herself.

And today (though I'm scheduling this post for tomorrow) on June 19, 2012, I am excited to tell you that After Elizabeth is complete. Even better? Armed with the critiques that I'd received from agents and Callie Kingston, though I wrote quickly, I wrote with showing in mind. When I read the ending to my sister, for the first time she said, "Yea, I can see everything you've just read, it was well written."

For the first time in my writing career, I'm proud of a rough draft, mainly because my sister didn't tell me that it sucked. Although she did tell me she had a beef with my ending. (Psshh, whatever.)

Now I step away for about a week, play, drink, and have fun.

Next week, the real work begins.

It's Finished! It's Finished!

With the help of Baxter, the support of friends, and a couple of glasses of wine, it is done.

My memoir is complete.

And now to step away from it before going back and editing.

WOO!

Memoir Writing VII: A Tribute To Memoirs

Welcome to the last day of Memoir Week! Hope you all survived. Today, I'm making a tribute to some awesome memoirs I've read in recent years, and hoping that maybe you guys have some to add to the list?

Either way, here is my top ten (in no particular order):

1) Mistaken Identity
2) Loose Girl
3) Smashed
4) Driving with Dead People
5) If I'm Missing Or Dead
6) Three Weeks with My Brother
7) All Creatures Great and Small
8) Marley and Me
9) Go Ask Alice
10) The Bell Jar

Enjoy. Happy writing and happy reading. If there was an issue you would have liked me to cover this week that I missed, let me know either in comment or via e-mail. Thanks for toughing it out!

Memoir Writing VI: Condensing And Memory Lapse

Welcome to day six of Memoir Week. Whew, after that last entry, I'm somewhat terrified, and relieved. Hopefully I still have some followers coming around...(Are you there still?)

Anyways, today's topic is on Condensing and Memory Lapse.

Hands down, favorite notebook,
ever.

At AWP, someone talked about a memoir that had been written. The author went through and wrote about this grand, hours long surgery. He wrote about it once, meaning it had only been one surgery, when in fact, it had been multiple. He felt it was okay to condense all of this into that one passage. What do you think?

Truthfully, there sometimes is a memory lapse; those moments when you try to get the chronological order of things, but without documentation, it's impossible. You can't remember what color the counter top was 14 years ago, or the exact pair of pants. But, there are ways to solve this problem.

One way, is to ask a friend who was around, for help. Ask them questions, get their rendition of what happened. See how it applies to yours. In the end, go with your memory, as this is your memoir, your story, from what you remember.

Another way is to say things like, "It may have been 5a.m. when Jackson snuck out of the house." That way you're not being definitive. You're not saying it WAS 5a.m. you're saying you're unsure. Readers will cut you some slack as long as you're not writing definitives.

One other way is to be point blank and say, "I'm not sure when this happened, but I know this happened." Or even, "Though I'm writing this as one surgery, it was really several surgeries over time." You could even do the old school.* And at the bottom of the page, match the star and elaborate that there's a bit of a fib there. That way the reader won't feel completely cheated.

But if possible, try to trigger those memories. Did you keep a journal at the time? Notebooks? Twitter? Facebook? Photographs? What about asking your friends and family about what happened? What about asking them if they have pictures?

Pretty much, as a reader, I know you're going to lie to me a little bit because you probably don't have a photographic memory. It's called creative nonfiction for a reason, but please, be as truthful as you can be.

Tomorrow's post will be a tribute to memoirs. Stay tuned for the books that rocked my socks.

Memoir Writing V: Writing The Hard Stuff

Welcome to day five of Memoir Week. Today, we take a bit more of a somber note because the topic is writing the hard stuff.

So, what is the hard stuff? It's the things you'd rather not admit to, the things you'd rather forget. Chances are, it's the reason you're writing your memoir in the first place.

When I took on the idea of my memoir, I couldn't handle it. I'd written a blog post in October, updated my fear journal, but I couldn't face what had happened or what I'd done. Dear God, I'd gotten pregnant. Worse yet? I wasn't 100% sure who the father had been. In order to write the memoir truthfully and factually, I'd have to admit these things to myself, and to you guys. I would also have to realize that some of the players involved, weren't completely evil...even if I hate them.

At the time I'd taken the test I was emotionally unstable. There are pictures of my hand three weeks later after I'd punched the crap out of a wall. It got to a point I couldn't handle being awake, breathing. I laid on the couch for days on end, refusing to answer my cell phone, refusing to go into work. Then...I did the unthinkable.

I almost abandoned this little man, but in
the end, he's a huge reason why I'm
still alive.

Suicide became a viable option.

I'd gone so far as to start arranging a permanent home for Baxter so when I was dead, he'd be taken care of. I made posts like THIS or THIS on this blog. I was ready to say goodbye. And then something shifted. Someone in my Alanon group told me, "I burned my bra so that you'd have a choice. Don't let suicide be your option." Then more and more people started telling me, hugging me as I was sobbing, "You deserve the right to live, you deserve the right to make your decision." And so with their support, I made my decision:

I went to a clinic, I cried for days, and then I chopped off my hair again, started wearing jeans more often, and in less than a month, Baxter and I moved to Maine. When we arrived, I fully started going by Lynne, my middle name, rather than my first name because that girl died at the clinic. Even now, as I'm in Michigan I cringe every time someone uses that name because I loathe who I'd been.

I went from being the girl who was waiting for marriage to have sex, to the girl who was pregnant.  I went from the girl who was against abortion and to the girl in the waiting room to get one. And now, I'm writing about it.

The wounds are still fresh, and I'm incredibly angry about all of it. On certain days, the self loathing comes back, and I want to drive my car into a tree. Most of the time as I'm writing The Right To Live I'm on the brink of falling apart. There's a commercial out there about abortion that says something like, "The woman who has an abortion only says fetus, or only thinks of it as tissue." It's not true.

He or she was my child I killed. He or she was a playmate for Baxter, a niece or nephew for my sisters. But, where I am at in my life, I am not ready for a child...emotionally, financially, physically, and so I made my decision. Was it selfish? Yes. Would I have killed myself if I'd chosen to carry it to term and given it up for adoption? Yes.

After a long time of not talking about it, I'm able to write now. I'm also breaking down every time I open my lap-top. I'm panicking as I write this post because I'm afraid to lose followers because of the decision I've made. The bottom line, is that this happened to me, this is who I was, and now I'm someone else. I will never be that girl again.

So, the message today is to write your story. Write until you break down, and then go for a walk, pet your dog, hug someone. Call someone for support. But write your story, because it's yours and it's beautiful, and you deserve to share it. Push through the hard stuff. You survived it once, you can do it again.

Thanks for reading today. I hope you guys don't hate me for sharing this with you...

Tomorrow's blog: Condensing And Memory Lapse

Memoir Writing IV: Handling Potentially Offended Readers

Welcome to day four of Memoir Writing Week! Woot. Yesterday we discussed actually writing the memoir, writing your story, not someone else's.

But, that someone else will still make a cameo appearance, no?

Who saw a picture of Baxter coming here?

In one of the panels at AWP, someone said, "If your friend were writing a memoir, and you showed up, chances are you wouldn't recognize yourself." Why? Because the way we see ourselves is vastly different from the way others see us. This is something to take into consideration when we start to type.

So, you've just written your memoir. You know that your boss will be pissed, that your parents may disown you, or your brother may throw you out of the house you live in. Maybe, your husband is going to divorce you if he reads this. If that's the case, WELL DONE!

Now, for handling those situations.
When I've finished a novel, I'm always apprehensive about talking to my friends about it. Why? Because there is usually a piece of them in it, but I get the luxury of hiding and claiming it as fiction. In memoir...we don't get to hide. So that little tug you feel on your heart saying, "Please don't hate my for this," is probably valid.

When I decided to write my memoir, I thought of who the integral characters were in my story:

Him, who will probably not be named

Her, who will also probably not be named

Me

My friend Allie

My friend Jen

Maybe some Patrick

Maybe some sister

And then everyone I met in Maine when I moved

Me and Patrick before I lost my mind in NC.
Yes, I did ask if it was alright for me to post this picture.

Before I started writing, I talked to Patrick, asked his permission to write about him, asked if he was okay with it. His response? "I've always supported your writing," and for that, I love him. He's allowed me write terrible terrible things about him, even if it's claimed as fiction. He knows who he is in my life, and he allows me the freedom I strive for.

Me and my very young and wise friend, Allie

Then I talked to Allie. Whenever I've finished a novel, she's always been my first beta reader. Not because she shreds it like most betas, but because I want her opinion on whether or not the story is actually a story/has plot/makes sense. However, in my memoir, she plays a completely different role. She is the one who was more responsible than I was, the one who pushes me to be a better person. Truthfully, there won't really be anything bad to say about her, as she is one of the reasons I'm alive and standing right now. She asked to read it when I'm finished.

I talked to my sister about it, and she asked if I had enough distance from what I'm writing about. She worried that not enough time has elapsed.
But not a single one of these people told me, "No, you cannot write this."

I probed more. The people along my path, the stay I made in Virginia during Thanksgiving. I called my friend who housed me and asked his feelings. He said he and his parents would probably be fine with me writing about them, as long as they get to read the segment their in. (At some point, I feel and fear they'll read all of it, and know why I went crazy back then...then I'll have to explain myself, possibly lose them as friends...but...this is a story I need to write.)

For the two who won't be named. I know if this gets published, they'll know exactly who they are and what their part was in me losing my mind. I'm not going to ask permission because when he left me he said, "Write a story about this, get it published." And well..I'm going to do just that. Her? Well, I'm okay with never speaking to her again, either.
At the same time when I say this, even though I hate them, and would still probably prefer them to be dead, I have to be honest with them. Like the Johnny, the ex lover who decapitated the cat, I loved these people for years of my life. Up until the moment I felt betrayed, I still loved them. They weren't evil to me, they were close enough to be family to me.
And now I hate them.
But in order to write a fair and just memoir, I have to allow the reader to know that these people weren't always evil. I didn't always hate them. And at some point while writing this memoir, in order to write it well, I'll have to forgive them for what I hate them for.

So a real quick summary for how to approach potentially offended readers/loved ones:
--You could ask how they feel, or at least give them a heads up. Say, "I'm going to write a memoir, you're going to have a role in it"
--Offer to let them read it. If you choose this option and they fight you on it, make sure that you're staying true to your story
--You may even ask for some input. My memory SUCKS, so a lot of the conversations and things that happened, I'll need help with. I know Allie would be more than willing to assist with this and not be offended, but maybe other people may do the same for you. If they have a hand it it, it may lesson the anger/hurt/resentment
--If you don't want their input, if you don't want to ask permission (because honestly, I don't want that, either), you could at least offer to let them read it ahead of time so if it does hit the stands, they'll know what it says beforehand

If all else fails and you don't want to do any of this, more props to you. Be prepared for the backlash though. (But if there's a lot of backlash, did you really want these people as friends anyway?)

Tomorrows blog will focus on: Writing The Hard Stuff

Memoir Writing III: Selling People Out

Welcome to day three of Memoir Writing. Today, I'm going to focus on what I learned at a panel at AWP; Selling Out Everyone You Love. I'm also going to tie in a couple of other things I learned but...Let's start here.

People say, "Never trust a writer." Why? Because we have this little habit of basing fiction off real life...and then *GASP* some of us write the dreaded memoir. So, our life, and our friend's and family's lives are there for the world to see. So how do we handle this? How do we write about that time when Aunt Sally got drunk and peed her pants on the dance floor? How do we approach that time when Uncle Willy accidentally killed the neighbor's dog and just left it? How do we write about the people we've been in fights with, people who told us their secrets in exchange for ours, and still keep them in our lives? 

Baxter saying, "No, Lynne. Don't write about that time I chewed up that photo album you loved and then proceeded to pee on it when you yelled at me."  (This is a true story, by the way)

Firstly, those of you who follow my blog, know I post a lot of things about real life pretty regularly. I have a personal blog on Xanga that is my "Woe is me," blog. My sister will say things like, "Wow, you're able to just write about that," meaning that I'm not censoring myself, I'm just saying, "This is what happened, this is why I'm pissed."

But blogs are different from Memoir.  Memoir tells a story, your journey through (usually) hell and back.
 Stephen Elliot, author of The Adderal Diaries gave some advice,

"Find your moral line, and never cross it." 

So what's your moral line? What is that one thing that you'll never do, never write about, never say? Notice, this isn't your sister's moral line, this is yours. This is how you'll get to sleep tonight.

Things to consider when you're writing:

*Everyone you know will read it

*You don't know what will set the reader (your potential, mother, grandmother) off

In order to write a memoir well, you need to be able to forgive the people in your life for wronging you. Truth of the matter is, people aren't just evil all the time (except for the guy I lost my virginity to...literally, this kid had and still has no redeeming qualities). In contrast, people aren't always good all the time, either. As writers, and even as specifically memoirists, it is our job, our RESPONSIBILITY to say the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

The truth of this picture may have some potential
law breaking involved....

If you're unable to tell the reader that one good night you had with an ex lover before he crashed your car and decapitated your cat, we won't believe you. After all, why would you be so dumb as to let him in your apartment in the first place? Chances are that you loved him before you hated him...so why did you love him? Keep in mind, if that cat was your sister's cat, too...she may not want you to paint him in this light.  After-all, she hated him from the get-go. She told you he was bad news.

So, some things to consider  before you write your memoir:
This book is about you, and your path. It is NOT about getting literary revenge on Johnny. While he may have had a piece of the puzzle, you only need to show your interactions with him to propel YOUR story forward. This is your story, not Johnny's.

Who are the important pieces of the memoir? Why are they important?

When you write, try not to censor yourself. Don't think of friends, and family, or publication. Think of the story, because clearly, this story is important to you.

As a creative non fiction writer, you have to be willing to sell out YOURSELF before you can really sell out anyone else. If before that ex lover decapitated your cat, you handed him the knife and said, "Dude, cut my cat's head off," we need to see this. We need to see your faults, your truths that you usually leave out of your retellings. People's short comings are really what make us interesting.

With that said, remember all it boils down to is being able to write the story. So, write it before considering who you're going to offend because...

Tomorrow's blog is about handling the pissed off character in your memoir. (Also known as, "Don't you dare write this or you are not my daughter/son anymore!" and how to handle those responses.)

Memoir Writing II: Memoir Survival Kit

Welcome to day 2 of Memoir Writing! Yay. Before we really get down and dirty this week, I thought I'd make a fun post, because let's face it...writing about how we've messed up...umm...

Sucks.

So, in order to deal with these things, I've created the Memoir Survival Kit:

1--An alcoholic beverage of some sort. I prefer wine, vodka, or beer. After each intense scene, take a shot, sip, drink. If you can't drink, I'd recommend a strawberry shake. Maybe a smoothie. Something with a lot of calories to fill the gaping hole you'll feel, because trust me...it'll be there.

2--Good, positive, reassuring company. Allow yourself to take breaks call friends and family, and freak out for a moment. Make sure the people you're interacting with will push you, not hinder you. You need support to take on this project.

3--Things that inspire you. I LOVE James Frey, and I usually have this book with me when I travel because he signed it with an extremely encouraging message, "If I can write a book and get it published, you can too."

4--The ability to do research. These things may consist of; old blog posts, Facebook statuses, notebooks, old texts, or even going and harassing friends and family to get their memory to help your memory.

5--Food. Must remember to eat. Must remember to take care of yourself.

6 and 7--Water, and scenery. Water, because we need to stay hydrated. Scenery, so we can remind ourselves that life, isn't always this crappy. We've survived worse. We're here to tell our stories and to give strength to those people who haven't yet faced what they've been through. We're writers, we give voices to things that otherwise wouldn't see the light of day.

But that doesn't mean we don't need shots when we write. Ernest Hemingway said, "Write drunk; edit sober." 

Cheers!

Tomorrow's blog will talk about:

Selling Out Everyone You Love (a lovely panel from AWP). Basically, I'll be talking about how to approach personal invasion and alienation and subtle ways to say what you need to say without losing friends or family.

Hopefully, anyway.

Memoir Writing I: The Pitch

Welcome to MEMOIR WEEK!

I'm in the process of writing mine, and it terrifies me. The first day I started, I got about ten pages in, cried hysterically....then...closed my computer and stopped. At AWP, I met a woman writing her memoir about her mother's disappearance when she was 13. It turned out, that her father had murdered her mother, and until there was proof, she was forced to live with him.When she told me this, I stared for a second so I could regain composure. This was an unGodly difficult topic to discuss. I was torn between wanting to hug her, and asking if I could beta for her.

This is me and my sister, in real life. We found a fish head...
And decided to take it home. Weird? Yes. Make sense? No.

Memoir is a hard thing to get into. As I said in a panel question; real life sucks. It's messy, it's complicated, and it rarely makes sense. It's why we're so fascinated with it. Someone else said that Fiction is difficult to write because it has to make sense (inferring that real life does not make sense. Ever.)

The first thing you need to know about memoir, is that it's handle like fiction. That does not mean WRITE fiction and claim it as memoir. That means that:

*Your memoir must be written and polished. That's right; we no longer get to hide in the clouds of fiction. Our beta readers are going to see us at out lowest times in life, and they're going to still tell you that your writing is weak here, and that there is some sentence structure issues. But this time, it's your life they're going to be editing. Cringe now.
*You still send a QUERY letter. That means something like this,
My memoir, INSERT TITLE HERE, is about XXXX.
Or...
Read the backs of any other memoirs to get help with your query. What did you go through? How did it change and affect you? Why are you writing this?
*Oh, and it can't be like everything else out there. So:
Why is your memoir different?

Thus comes your PITCH.
These notes are from PNWA this last summer. Even still, I feel like they'll help. Even if you're a FICTION writer (which I am, also) :)

I was just so excited about the
bag of knowledge :)

1) Be precise about your book and where it fits into the market. "Fans of Sarah Dessen's Lock and Key may enjoy this memoir/novel." It shows that you know the market, and you know the audience you're aiming for.
2) Do NOT tell the story step by step. DO tell the SET UP, CONFLICT, and RESOLUTION.
3) Do NOT talk about your book at arms length. Immerse us in your book, make us feel for your character in that one pitch. Think about what pulls you into a novel, into a memoir. Now do the same with your pitch, pull us in.
4) Write in the voice of the narrative. So, if it's funny, be humorous. If it's sad, be a bit of a debbie downer.
5) Since you CAN'T include plot lines, choose ONE thread and make it sing. What is your novel about, ignore the sub plots, the jealous ex lovers. Who are we focused on; what happens to him/her?
6) What big concepts does your book address? Love, loss, hope?
7) End with concept in an active sentence.


Tomorrow's blog will talk about:
The Memoir First Aid Kit: Things You Need Handy When Writing Memoir