Filed under: Uncategorized
When I first set about to write a memoir, I had no idea it would be so hard. I was a teenaged Mormon shoplifter. My mother was depressed and reclusive. My father is one of the oddest people I’ve ever known. Add to that, my brother and sister and I were equally underprivileged and over-indoctrinated but each of us took radically different paths. Plenty of drama, I’d thought, and foolishly I believed the story would practically tell itself.
I didn’t realize that peeling my story apart would reveal a veritable circus of colorful and ill-mannered memories nearly impossible to tame, a kaleidoscope of mini stories each competing for center ring and none singularly thrilling enough to command it. A pesky agenda to expose the sexism of my childhood religion is often a formidable obstacle and self-doubt is my touchstone. When I’m tired or challenged, I make a bee-line for the safety of low self-esteem. If I’m not capable of doing something, the pressure is off and I am relieved, at least temporarily.
But I am also hard to knock down for long. Turns out I have the resilience and persistence of a cockroach.
Leave a Comment so far
Leave a comment
