Writing

Crying in H Mart

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I just finished reading Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. If you don’t already know, as a makeshift crash course on memoir writing, I have been reading memoir almost exclusively. Every list of recommended memoirs includes Crying in H Mart, like every damn list. So… I read it. I have mixed feelings.

The book is well written. Much of the prose quite beautiful and though the timeline in nonlinear, it didn’t feel confusing to me in the slightest. That said, I really didn’t like it. Like it was ok. It was fine. Not how I want to feel after reading a memoir… I want my heart ripped out of my chest. I want it to hurt in the best way and then… Then I want the wound to be dressed and cared for, gently. I want to feel made whole again by words alone. I want inspiration. And I didn’t get that here. For me, I feel like the description of outside events, environment, what have you, far outweighed internal experience and quite frankly, I was bored.

I’ve come to realize that I may have different taste than the average reader and/or whoever the readers are that decide that a book is so good and deserves all the praise. This isn’t the first highly recommended memoir that I’ve felt this way about. It always comes down to the same thing. I am so much more interested in the writer’s internal experience, the description of their thoughts and emotions than I am the outside world. I have to be able to relate to the author and I have to be able to relate emotionally.

I don’t know why any of this is surprising to me. This is absolutely the reason that I consume media, whether it be books, movies/shows or music. Unless I am in it to learn, which is also huge for me (I need to know all the things, ALL THE THINGS), I’m basically using it to process my emotions. I have difficulty with identifying my own emotions. I’m very good at seeing them in others but myself, well, it’s s struggle. I need someone outside of myself to trigger these emotions so that I can feel and process them fully.

This post is definitely not a dis on Crying in H Mart or Michelle Zauner’s writing. It is a well written book. If you enjoy books that are highly descriptive of the environment, this may be for you, especially if you like descriptions of food or foreign cultures. If you’re like me and are more interested in the internal, maybe not (in maybe a third of the book there is more emotional description), maybe then you’d like the book I just read (Unbearable Lightness by Portia de Rossi) or the one I’m reading currently (Girl in Need of a Tourniquet by Merri Lisa Johnso) more 🤷

Anyway, this has me thinking about writing and my memoir. I’ve heard over and over that most writers new to memoir struggle with the whole show don’t tell thing but that that is easy to learn. That the real struggle tends to be understanding that when you are writing your memoir, you aren’t just talking about yourself, you are making a connection with a wider theme. You are using your story as an example of some wisdom that you attempting to impart. It isn’t about you, it’s about the lesson.

I think that may be backward for me. I may struggle with the former much more then the latter. The general point of my public writing is to use my life, my story, my struggles to help others feel less alone. I definitely use it for my own processing but I do so by connecting my experience to larger societal themes, right? I feel like that kind of comes naturally to be but description of things outside of myself… that may be a struggle for me.

Like I said, it doesn’t interest me. If I’m being completely honest, at times I just skim the outside description. It feels like unnecessary filler and it bores me. Given that much of my life had been lived inside of my head, that makes sense. What about you? How do you feel about description in writing? Do you prefer description of the scenery? The action? Or are you similar to me and prefer the internal landscape? Maybe both are equally important for you? I’m genuinely curious. Please drop a comment and let me know.

The Hook

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ 2 Comments

I’m still reading and participating in the exercises in Kelly Notaras‘ The Book you were Born to Write.

Kelly encourages writers to develop several “hooks” for their book. A hook being a short , attention-grabbing statement that describes the essence of your book and entices readers to want to learn more. She then suggests asking any followers you may have their opinion. So, here we go… Which of these do you like best? Which book would you be mostly likely to read? Is their one that stands out? None? A combination of two or more? Please let me know and again, please honesty and kindness.

  1. Growing up as an undiagnosed autistic woman, trapped in a world of addiction, self-harm, and codependency, living as though invisible and misunderstood. This raw, unflinching memoir reveals my battle to survive, break free from the glass, and finally be seen for who I truly am.
  2. Growing up as an undiagnosed autistic woman, fighting through addiction, self-harm, and codependency, all while feeling invisible in a world that doesn’t understand. This searing memoir is the story of my struggle to survive, break free from the glass, and reclaim life on my own terms.
  3. How not knowing I’m autistic caused me to live a life disconnected from myself and my journey back home.
  4. The author recalls a life of invisibility as an undiagnosed autistic woman and the events that led to her finally learning to live life on her own terms
  5. A memoir of a life of invisibility and how my children, the one I have and the one I almost had, lead to my autism diagnosis and self acceptance.

The Book you were Born to Write

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I’ve been reading The Book you were Born to Write by Kelly Notaras.

I’m only about a third of the way through but so far, I’m finding it helpful. I’ve started working on my first memoir. I have actually written something, not much but something. I still didn’t have a full grasp on what I’m writing. I’ve got the gist but I’m still struggling with the structure and what I want to include. To help, I’ve been reading only writing books and memoirs. I’m using them like a class of sorts.

Anyway, The Book you were Born to Write…Kelly includes exercises that have nothing to do with the actual writing but more of the motivation to write, and getting clearer on your vision. She suggests that you make a mock cover for you book so that you have something tangible to hold in your hands. I don’t have the means to have one actually printed out but I did decide to make one so that I can visualize my book as well, a book. I’d like to know your opinions. Keep in mind that’s it’s really basic (I made it in Google photos in a very short amount of time). Please, if you give your opinion, be honest but also kind. Thank you ❤️

This isn’t an autism memoir

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My sleep has been restless. I fall asleep, mind clear, but clearly my subconscious is obsessed with my writing a memoir. It seems that until I know the details of what I’m writing, the theme, the structure, my mind will not stop trying to figure that out.

Originally, I though I wanted to write an autism memoir. I’m not so sure that I do. Every memoir that I’ve read on autism is information heavy. You know, diagnostic criteria, facts and statistics and what not. I don’t think that’s the book I’m writing.

I’ve always imagined my book to be more, hmm, emotional. I’ve lived many lives. Most spent grappling with my own internal experience. I feel like that’s my book.

I’m not sure exactly and that’s the problem, it seems. Any memoir that I write will be an autism memoir. There are no stories that belong to me that are without autism. There is no me without autism. It’s not like some parts of myself that are singular in their existence in my life. It is my brain. Autism is the whole of me, but… I don’t think this is an “autism memoir”. If not that, if I don’t have that structure to hold onto, then what?

But Everyone Feels this Way

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I was thinking about writers and how it’s easier to publish a book if you already have an audience, and the need to support those that you enjoy and that brought me to the realization that I totally forgot to do a review for Paige Layle’s book, But Everyone Feels this Way. I read it quite awhile ago, so I don’t really remember the specifics but I do remember what I wanted to say.

If you are unfamiliar with Paige, she makes content on social media speaking about autism. I like Paige. I have from the first video of her’s that I came across. She does , however, have a way of sometimes coming across as if her opinion is THE truth. I find that irksome at times but…. I like her. I find her content relatable and entertaining.

That said, after reading her book, I like her even more. Reading her story helped me to reframe some of what I found off-putting. This is definitely one of my favorite memoirs about autism.

Autism presents in such a wide variety of ways… If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person, so it’s hard to say whether or not anyone else would feel the same way that I do. I think the memoirs people tend to like best are the ones they most relate to but… Other than Drama Queen… This is my favorite.

So, here’s me showing support for Paige. I highly recommend it.

One Step at a Time

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I have something interesting (read strange) going on.

When I sleep, upon waking, in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness, I find myself writing. That is, I find my mind filled with lines as if they are being set to page. The tone is clear, voice strong. Only problem is that the stories are not stories that I have lived. I’m currently reading, Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir. I appear to writing a memoir but it is not mine.

Sometimes, if I read a lot, right before bed, I have something similar happen. I will wake up reading. I continue reading the book, in the style of the writer, (making it up as go, apparently) in my sleep. This only happens when I’ve been reading for a long time before going to sleep. My assumption is then, that reading The Art of Memoir has my brain working overtime thinking about writing my memoir.

I have thought about writing a memoir (or three… I’ve lived many lives) for years. I’ve been told by countless people that I need to write one. I’ve assumed that some day I would write one but… Every time that I’ve thought about it I’ve become so overwhelmed that I just put that thought right away…some day.

The prospect of writing a book is intimidating, for anyone, I assume, but my overwhelm has been paralyzing. Where would I start? How would I know what parts of my life to include? Would I be able to remember enough detail? Should I reread all of my journals? And on and on. There is another reason though (or reasons, kinda).

I saw this on Facebook recently…

This trips me up… The other people part. A memoir is about the writer, your stories, what you’ve learned but… We do not live in a vacuum and those stories often include others.

There are many others throughout my life that would not come off the best. There are many ways that I wouldn’t either but that’s fine. I own my past fully but… Those others. I have a tendency to avoid talking about people in my past, other then with those closest to me, because it’s complicated. Things are never black and white and I don’t want anyone to come off as a villain. There are no villains in this story, only wounded people. I feel the need to protect those people, though they did not feel that same need towards me. *sigh*

There’s also the issue of my mother. I’ve always felt terrified at the prospect of my mom reading any book that I might write. She is one of those that I feel the need to protect and, well, even though I live with her, she really knows nothing about my life. I think I’d prefer to keep it that way. I don’t want to hurt her and I’m not a fan of drama. My guess is that she wouldn’t even read it and if she did happen to, she would just sweep the whole thing under the rug. Never happened. That is her go to.

When I was in my early twenties, I had her come to a therapy session with me. I had gotten a tattoo and had been hiding it from her….

The session did not go well. There was no drama, but there was no honesty on her part either(other than her telling me, directly after said appointment, that my therapist was not to be trusted because… She was gay… You have got to be kidding me). The anger I felt over the dishonesty prompted a conversation (more just me crying and rambling and admitting all of what I thought would have been my failings in her eyes). You see, up until that point, I believed that my mom didn’t love me, or that any love that she had for me was dependant upon me living up to the image that she held of me. The actual me could not be further from her held image. What I learned was that my mom loves me to the best of her ability. That ability does not include changing that image. She can hear it and continue to love me but she can’t hold it. Denial is her survival. It’s the only thing she knows and she is not self aware enough to know more.

I am though. I am self aware enough to see that all of this, while valid, is also an excuse so that I can self sabotage. I am called to write a book. Maybe several. I have been for basically my entire life. I think I’m finally finding my footing. Maybe I can finally do what’s right for me, regardless of my desire to protect those around me. Maybe I can finally put myself first. Admittedly, even writing that, put myself first, feels icky. I’m getting there though. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

Honestly

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Is it just me, or has anyone else’s head felt like it was going to implode…or maybe it’s explode, I’m not sure… At any moment, lately.

I can not seem to stop ruminating…about… EVERYTHING.

I think I NEED to write.

I was thinking about my old blog earlier. I received a lot of big reactions there. A lot of hate but also a lot of love…a lot of people saying that I was helping them. I didn’t understand it at the time but now, I think it was because I was so honest. I think in order for this blog too be truly helpful for myself and (hopefully) others, it may need to be that honest.

I’m not sure that I’m to the task. I guess we shall see …