Writing a Memoir Hurts

Childhood monsters of loss, sadness, and pain might hide under the bed.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

I never expected it to be this hard. Possibly, writing a memoir while feeling lonely during the forced isolation of a pandemic is not the wisest choice I’ve ever made. Or, just maybe, it’s given me the time to dig deeper than I might otherwise have done.

“In some ways, writing a memoir is knocking yourself out with your own fist, if it’s done right,” Karr writes in The Art of Memoir.

I was born in July 1953. In August, Alfred Kinsey released his book Sexual Behavior in the Human Female. It shocked the world with its explicit revelations and implied permission for women to embrace their sexuality.

Four days later, the Soviet Premier, Georgy Malenkov, announced that the United States no longer had a monopoly on the hydrogen bomb.

I’m not sure which was more explosive, but both reflected the changes to follow during my lifetime and my recent understanding of my mother.

But the most shocking changes have occurred in my heart as I’ve delved into history and the first-person writing of my mother.