What Not To Write

So here’s a stumper. You’re trying to be honest. You’re trying to tell your story with authenticity, which means being honest. Reeeeaaaaallllly honest. It means facing the things that are embarrassing. In embarking on this project, I will, I’m sure, struggle with putting all my ugly out there for people to see. I’m already having trouble even imagining it. According to my kids, I’m constantly embarassing. Like, every time I say “butt” in public or dance and sing while I’m making dinner. But see? That’s easy to admit, “I say BUTT in public! BUTT BUTT BUTT!”

Some things are hard to put out there because they really are private, or were at the time they were first written. And some things are just embarrassing because they reveal things about me I don’t ordinarily think of as ‘reveal’ material, or because I was (am) such a dork when I wrote a lot of this stuff that I am reading. And even if I’m not as big a dipshit as I once was, at least sometimes, like everyone else, on some level I will always think of myself as the dorkiest, lamest, most insecure version of myself. And its just a tad counterintuitive to take that part of me and swing it around like undies up a flagpole after a panty raid.

Some things are weird to write about because they are unquestionably boring for everyone except me. And I can get caught in the tension between wanting to write what’s important to me, and wanting people to like me and think I’m fascinating. And then there are things that are just the opposite. What do I do with things that might include someone else? I didn’t grow up locked in a trunk with my thoughts and a legal pad, after all. If I write about a love letter I got from someone before I met my husband, will I hurt my husband? Will I cause problems for my ex? If I write about something that I saw, or experienced, that impacted me but that really is part of someone else’s life that might be private to them, what do I do with that? What about unflattering things about people I adore and admire? What about the privacy of other people? I don’t want to violate confidences, even stale ones, but I don’t want to leave things out of this undertaking that are important in my life. When in doubt, I could always redact last names, I guess, but for the people who know who they are anyway, would that make them feel less invaded? Is my incessant overthinking of things that aren’t problems yet a sincere effort to do this right, or merely a stalling tactic?

With one exception, I’ll have to punt on establishing any real rules of engagement, in favor of a case-by-case approach. The exception? I won’t do anything misleading or dishonest. I’ll tell the truth. (Which reminds me - I’ve been trying to remember the name of that “You can’t handle the truth!” movie so that I can put it on my Netflix queue and show it to my daughter. Too bad there isn’t some kind of website where you could go to search for answers to questions like that on the internet!) And being honest is less a rule than a promise to myself and to the undertaking itself. To wax serous for a moment, I think being honest is another way of letting go of the things that aren’t important so that you can more fully experience the things that are. Its the decluttering of conscience. That would be a good title for a book. The Decluttering of Conscience: Ridding Yourself of Your Karmic Chachkies.”

And finally, what of those things that I remember but that were lost in the fire? How about the things that I am relieved are gone? Like the blue corduroy diary I kept in my ninth grade year. For years (decades) before the fire, I had been unsuccessfully trying to convince myself it was okay to throw it out, but, as I’ve mentioned, I was a saver, and therefore I found myself unpersuasive on that point. Suffice it to say that some of the thoughts in my life of which I am most ashamed were recorded there. And I was thrilled that it was burned up - problem solved. But I have managed to resurrect the dilemna, if not the diary itself. Do I tell the story of that diary as I remember it, in all its humiliating glory? Or do I allow it to be lost. Do I try to convince myself that things happen for a reason, and that there is a reason the diary burnt up and I shouldn’t try to tell the story? Or do I admit that I don’t really believe that “everything happens for a reason,” and write about the diary the way I remember it, shame flag flying? Or maybe I punt by deciding that writing about the diary is off-mission, as its destruction removed its artifactitude.

So, apologies in advance to those I take down the embarrassment rabbit hole with me. Remember, its not humiliation, its liberation.

xoxo
Jen