The Memoir Writing Introvert

Self-examination via writing, an act of narcissism or necessity?

A Behind the Scenes post on serializing an intimate story of a marriage in crisis, the call to personal writing, and what to do when a quest of three decades ends. Plus, a prompt. 🎤

“I didn’t chose memoir, memoir choose me.”

Hi and welcome to Flight School:

We have a prompt at the end of this post. I hope you’ll be inspired to pick up the mic, (also known as posting a comment).

First, though, you may have noticed that I have launched the serialization of The Summer of ‘72, my last memoir in a series that started in 1995 with the research of Blackbird.

Summer was born out of a single event I wrote of sparingly in Blackbird, an event I could not fully remember despite years of hypno-regression therapy, supposition, guesswork, and personal writing. Strangely, my third marriage and this story about that time exist because of that one elusive memory. For most of you, none of what I write here will make sense for a few more chapters (though some of the more die-hard Blackbird readers have figured it out). But it will, soon enough.

With each chapter going out, it’s hitting me that I’m done with this phase of my creative life.

Had you told me, back in the late ’90s (when I started writing this string of memoirs: Blackbird, Still Waters, Show Me the Way, Found, and now The Summer of ‘72), that it was going to take twenty-nine years to discover the entire truth, I would have said you were out of your damn mind. But there it is. I’ve given half my life to a long, often tedious, journey where I’ve struggled, failed, flailed, fallen, hauled myself up, only to struggle again. In this season of Lent, it can be called “my cross” which I’ve carried first through living such a baffling childhood—so utterly unwanted and reviled—then again through an unrelenting desire to know the whole truth.

Why serialize?

The simple answer is, why not? I’ve published four books and a whole pile of essays. I’ve traveled, won awards, sat with Oprah, been a New York Times bestseller. So, why not try something new?

Thanks to Substack, I’ve been given a window of freedom to be fully myself as a writer. You, the reader, decide if you like what you read. Then you can subscribe for free, or pay the humble seven bucks to upgrade.

It’s so honest and rather sweet, too. It’s personal. Me to you.

There are other reasons, of course, and I could go on and on about them but perhaps watch the

Sherman Alexie

post of November titled Leaving New York City. I think he makes some interesting observations about the confusion within publishing these days.

What now?

For so long, I was utterly committed to knowing the truth and using writing to help me find it. At the height of my quest, I felt like a crazed narcissist turning over (and over) certain questions I could not answer. Despite this sense that it was a total waste of time, unimportant in the greater scheme, and totally counter to my nature as an introvert, little voice whispered inside. Keep going. Never, ever give up.

I’m not sure why I trusted that voice, but I did keep going.

Now, that voice is finally quiet.

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”

― Maya Angelou

Socrates wrote that the unexamined life is not worth living. While mine has been an unnerving life to examine (as you read if you continue with The Summer of ‘72 to its conclusion), and that examination often felt baffling, it was the only option available to me.

In my fourth memoir, Found, which was about the impact of adoption, I wrote this of my struggling teen self: If she thinks of herself with any kind of praise, a feeling of itching anxiety sends her running to organize a drawer, fold laundry, wash the floor on her hands and knees, or clean out the refrigerator. As she fritters over meaningless tasks of order, she fills her head—like a countermeasure—with all that’s flawed. You talk too loud, your rear end is too big, your nose—what a honker on your face, and you’re not that smart, you’re street smart. You’re scrappy…the voice is a form of protection, a firm taskmaster that needs her to lay low. It tells her she will die if she brings attention to herself.

I don’t feel that way now. I’m not afraid to be in this world. I don’t wonder what happened to me or why anymore. It’s all clear. The past makes sense.

In that same passage in Found, a few paragraphs later, I wrote a bit more (that I’ve edited): One day the voice in her head will stop ordering her to drop down low and she will rise from her hiding place, scramble over the edge, dust the dirt of the past off her shoulders, and take flight. She will rise as bright as the sun to be no more than a speck in the forever blue sky.

All those years ago—just past the midpoint of my long memoir journey—I must have known that all this would add up to something both brilliant and fleeting. Here. Gone. What a ride it’s been.

🎤 Your turn:

What long journey have you been on?

What did you feel/do when you came to the end?

Or are you still in the thick of it now? How do you keep going? Why? What do others say to you as you struggle?

I hope you’ll share. I’m listening.

Thanks for being with me.

~ Jennifer 🐦‍⬛