Write Right: Write. And get on the Train

I’ve read many stories that I love. Stories that speak to my humanity, capture the richness and beauty o language, stun me with their originality, or teach me something new about my writing or myself. But most books I have read follow a formula or at least contain elements that a book “should” possess:

*beginning middle and end

*scenes of increasing intensity

*a linear plot 

*climax

*reoccurring symbols and metaphors

*sex :)

In my own writing, I find myself constantly wrapped up in trying to come up with a system/structure that will best serve my story (and make sure to get in all those little details and elements that add depth and dimension). So many ideas, memories, and thoughts packed into this one little life… but what to put down? How to say it best? And how to tie them all together? “Ahhhh!” I lament werewolf-like. I want to pull my hair out (and if I had it covering my whole body like werewolves do it would be even that much more dramatic). But if I did that every time I got frustrated with my writing, I’d be bald. So I resist and eat chocolate pudding instead. In the bliss of my sugar coma, I try to surrender to not knowing and just write (or read). And then I’ll write something or read something that sets off a tornado in my brain and I’ll think, “Snap! I’ve figured it out! I have the solution!” And I’ll cut and paste frantically and jot notes and diagrams in my notebook like a mad scientist on a hamster wheel.  And when my sugar rush has worn off and I’m too hungry to keep going, I pull myself away from my laptop and force some toast down my throat. And, as soon as the nourishment enters my bloodstream and grounds me, I’ll realize IT’S JUST NOT WORKING! And I fall flat on my face.

So I need reminders and I need them frequently. I need to be reminded that there is not just one “right way “or formula for structuring and crafting writing. There are no rules in the experience of creating something new. This is the gift and the challenge…and for this, I curse the God or gene that made me want to be a writer. Maybe all writers feel this ways at some point. And thank God for writers because it is their work that humbles and inspires me and offers me the greatest gift of remembering: THERE IS NO ONE RIGHT WAY TO WRITE except to write and take chances. Which finally leads me to what I wanted to say about "Soldier":

Thank you, June Jordan! You wrote your memoir the way I think and the way thought I wasn’t allowed to write. You write in “richly drawn memory pictures” (Quoted from the back of the book). You captured the way that memory functions:

*Memory is not linear. It twists through time and space like a snake that grows longer with each movement forward and returns to the beginning eventually to swallow it’s own tail. You move from:

“I never wanted and I never got a Shirley Temple doll” (23) to eating a foreign vegetable called “mushrooms” with your best friend Patricia Cantwell (24). What!

*Some memories have the depth and resonance of a fine baritone and some are just pretty flitting pictures light as bee toes on a blossom.

The memory of sticking your hand up into your mother because:

“The “stool” was too hard.

It wouldn’t come out.

She needed me for that.

She knew it was a lot to ask.

But she also knew how brave I was”. (217)

June, that memory will stay with me, I’m sure.

And then there are those light, lovely moments of reprieve from fighting and sacrifice:

“Pretty Miss Kitty was dark skinned like my uncle Teddy: Dark chocolate like you could just about drink it thick and smooth and sweet and not quite steaming form a cup you’d want to hold and smell and stare at and nobody bother you about that. I followed her around” (240).

*Some memories are long, detailed and padded with thick flesh and some are as brief and jarring as a quickly snapped bone.

There is a detailed story about your father coming home to beat you in the middle of the night. With the use of “Or” (genius!) you provide various options for how you responded to his blows:

“I am silent and concentrated on blocking the blows as they fall.

Or I begin to answer back: “Stop!”

Or: “Don’t hit me! Please Daddy! Please don’t hit me!” (37)

This is followed by a solitary sentence/memory: “My father hurt me and I never knew why” (38).

Both these memories/techniques pack a heavy punch, something your father taught you to do well. And I must say, at first I was surprised that you dedicated the book to him because, in spite of all the love and good intentions, he seemed like such a brutal monster most of the time. But I think I understand. Or at least I am beginning to understand: that there is no one right way to be a parent, a daughter, or a human being except to be brave, take chances, and get on that train even when you have no idea who or what will be waiting at the other side.

Shay