Day 58

A few days ago when I tried to transcribe the handwritten pages of my memoir, I was attacked by my inner demons. This is crap, the demons said, the ramblings of a novice hack. I was disturbed by just how vocal these demons had become and the impact they were having on my writing process.

I met for tea with some friends yesterday and shared my concerns. One of my friends asked me a question that opened a floodgate of emotion. I don't recall the exact phrasing, the specific words. It was something like: What do you hope to accomplish with your memoir? Or maybe it was: What is your purpose in writing the memoir? I really don't recall.

What I do recall are the raw, honest internal responses that the question generated. The answers came fast and sharp: I want the memoir to heal me. I want it to heal my daughter. I want it to be published and heal millions of other people. I want it to generate cash from its publication, cash that will bring even more healing to my family.

The eyes of my friends were upon me and I didn't want to speak. I was embarrassed to admit my expectations. I suddenly recognized how silly my fantasies would seem if I spoke them out loud. Realizing that they were nothing more than fantasies, I was ashamed that I had allowed myself to be swept away by them. My memoir was still in the womb and I was already weaving dreams of the ways it would give my life meaning and purpose.

Writing a memoir is a lot like excavating the family grave site. Each bone, each artifact that you uncover carries of legacy of loss and separation. The process is marked by layer upon layer of grief. I guess that in the midst of that pain, I wanted to believe that there would be some sort of reward at the end of the dig, a prize in the form of healing.

I woke this morning feeling dazed and still hungry for healing. Even before my first cup of tea, I scanned Facebook. I was intrigued by a link posted by my Mom. It was the video of a young man named Zac Smith just before his death from cancer at the age of 33. He talked about his desire to live to walk his daughter down the aisle and grow old with his wife. Then he said: "If God chooses to heal me, then God is God and God is good. If God chooses not to heal me and allows me to die, then God is still God and God is still good."

Astounded by his faith I thought about my own. I am not sure what God is. God, for me, is a mystery. I am certain of only one thing: there is a still, small voice that speaks to me. I don't know where it comes from but I know I have to listen and follow. Right now that voice says: WRITE! What becomes of what I write is not my concern. It is none of my business. I am not in control here. I am not God.