It’s raining, our breath in clouds and the ground muddy under our feet, the day my father walks me around his new property. Although it is early April, spring is yet to arrive in southern Oregon. Most of the plants and shrubs are brown and dormant.  But there are hints of cherry and plums and apple tree buds poking out from scrawny branches.  Blooming daffodils bend, laden with raindrops.

Last autumn my father purchased the 3.5 acres neighboring his current property.  The property was on the furthest slope of decline; the previous owner and his wife were hoarders, filling both their property and their mobile home with every object one might purchase via the shopping network, yard sales, online and the local Walmart.

It was a scene that too often scars the landscape of rural America: a rundown mobile home, three or four slanted and decaying sheds, discarded toilets near a hydrangea bush, and an old, broken down school bus. All of which were filled to the brim with the remnants of a life.

My father told my daughters: I’m making a park.

Then, he spent months sifting and sorting and making trips to the dump.  He had a large yard sale.  He spent additional months tearing down the sheds.  He cut and clipped through chicken wire around a long forgotten garden spot. He even found someone to take the bus. From my desk overlooking the Cascades, I imagined him out there in the winter elements, his hands raw from the cold, as he raked and burned.

Neighbors often stopped to ask questions.

Are you planning to build a new house?

No.

Are you going to sell the property? 

No.

I’m making something beautiful.

He wouldn’t say it that way, of course.  He’s not the kind to share something that intimate with acquaintances or strangers.  But I know what it is.  He’s making something beautiful, not for money or fame or glory – simply because.

The day I was there, the only thing left from the previous owners was the mobile home, wrapped in plastic, awaiting its buyer to haul it away.  The rest of the land was clear, ready for spring’s unleashing of buds and flowers and leaves.

Some Native Americans tribes believed there was no such thing as land ownership.  Instead, they thought of themselves as merely stewards, leaving the land unmarred for generations to come.  As my father and I discussed whether a tree was a cherry or a plum, I wondered what the Native Americans would think of this restoration?  Might it be an even higher calling than stewardship?  To restore a part of God’s creation to its previous glory – what could be better than this?

Yesterday marked the 20^th anniversary of the L.A. Rodney King riots. I lived on 8^th and Crenshaw, blocks from the decimated Korea Town, in those days, trying to make it as an actress in the city of angels.  But from my apartment window there were no signs of angels, only poverty and decay.  Sparked by one more injustice against an African-American man, a people raged against their collective despair and hopelessness and committed heinous crimes against their fellow men, using their fists and rocks and fire until the entire city was engulfed in a cloud of gray smoke.

I am from southern Oregon. Waters of the rivers there still flowed through my veins and I merely had to shut my eyes to remember the blue of an August sky. Perhaps this is why I believed there was still hope for a better life – one with beauty and opportunities and an ability to support a family.  The American dream was something tangible to me, despite what unraveled before my eyes as my friend, Maria, and I were surrounded by an angry mob on Pico Boulevard that fiery afternoon.

But in the years since, I often wonder what would happen if something beautiful, like parks, for example, were scattered amongst the communities of south central Los Angeles?  How much further along might we be?

In the time my father has toiled in the dirt, I’ve been at my desk writing my new manuscript – trying to make something beautiful.  Although my work is less physical, it’s no less arduous.  There are many days when it feels too hard, yet I carry on searching for the next word, because I want, more than anything, to make something beautiful.

Neither my father nor I can explain it exactly – why making a park and a book are so important to us.  I know this – it’s not as simple as leaving a legacy.  Nor is it merely driven by a sense of accomplishment. I believe it’s an innate human quality, this desire to make something beautiful, squelched only by the realities of a world drowning in despair.  Therefore, it is the responsibility of those who still believe, of those who can see through the smoke to the other side of gloom where hope resides, to fight for beauty, no matter the cost.

I know, too, that it makes God smile.

As usual, he was right. By dinnertime on the west coast, we’d climbed to the #1 slot.

We’re still there, as of this post.

Cheers!

This, my friends, was a good day.

RIVERSONG is free all week.  Grab your Kindle copy if you haven’t already!

Cheers.

“My head itches,” she says.

“Are you too warm?”

“I guess.”  She takes off her feety pajamas without moving from the bed.  When she curls back into me her skin is soft and her hair smells like little girl and flowers. “She has the sweetest smelling head,” my mother said once, when Emerson was about ten months old. She still does, I think. But how did we get here already? From that baby to a reader in Kindergarten.

She’s back in the crook of my arm. I hold her close, pulling her into my excess flesh from growing two babies and that I do endless crunches and sit-ups, wishing I looked like the women I see on television. But tonight I’m grateful for my softness, the way it encompasses my sweet girl.

Her body relaxes. She twitches once and then again. Her breathing becomes even.

I’m awake for another fifteen minutes. I go over all the failings of the day before – laundry not folded, exercise classes missed, how to finish the scene at the end of Part Three. I’m smashed between Emerson and Patches and Dave, who is now snoring.  Like a sardine, I think.

And then, a memory. I’m 5; my brother 2. We’re inching along in traffic on I-5 at Los Angeles in our Jeep Wagoneer.  We’re the way to San Diego to see my grandparents. We’ve travelled for two days from Oregon. My little brother and I crawl into the back and fall asleep, nestled together, the sun beating in through the back window. When we wake, sweaty, my mother is hanging over the seat, smiling at us.  ”You’re like little sardines back there,” she says. Her face is kind, indulgent. I mark this because the days before the trip were hurried and stressful; she was preoccupied and sharp-tongued as she packed and watered her garden and washed clothes and made arrangements for someone to feed the dog.

I know it all now. Because now it’s me with too many chores and commitments. Regardless, with my little girl next to me, I begin to drift back to sleep.  And then, suddenly, Emerson is crying.  ”A monster was in my dream,” she says.  ”And he ate all of us.  Our whole family.”

I pull her closer. I reassure her there are no monsters. “I want to be closer to daddy,” she says. “In the middle so nothing can get me.”  She crawls over me and puts her  hand on her daddy’s sleeping form.

At my feet Patches lifts his head and sighs. I pet him for a moment and he turns over so I can rub his belly. He twists in a circle three times and then flops on my legs. I smile in the darkness. I say a silent, thankful prayer for this, all of this.

Because tomorrow will be here in the moment it takes me to fall asleep.

I think of my grandparents. They’re all gone now. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t miss of all four of them. And my parents, aging, with white hair and lines etched into their faces. My heart aches here in the dark. And I wonder where it goes? Time. The elusive moment gone in the instant it takes to drift off to sleep. Time – the only monster eating up my family.

Enjoy.

***

Why Memoir? One Writer’s Perspective

When I first started telling people I was writing a memoir, I wondered if they would think I was terribly self-absorbed, or whisper under their breath ah yes, yet another person who thinks their life should be a book. What I’ve learned from reading a lot of memoirs in the last handful of years is that the story doesn’t always have to be a sweeping tale of adversity, survival and triumph. Sometimes it can be the recounting of the simple pleasures of everyday life. It’s all in the storytelling.

Where a memoirist shines is in their ability to tell stories that bring forth such empathy and affect that the reader wants to hug the writer afterward. Two of my favorite memoirists, William Zinsser and Abigail Thomas, talk about things like mechanical baseball games and ramshackle chicken coops. On a normal day, I care about neither, but after I read their stories, I want them as my new best friends.

Digging through your life and deciding which of your many stories to tell—and I believe we all have many stories— is not an easy task, though. To start, one of the questions that memoirists can ask themselves as they embark on writing about their lives is why? What is it that is compelling them to expose their vulnerable bellies and write unvarnished words about themselves and their families? It’s important to understand this aspect (as one of my writer friends calls it, the heart connection) otherwise the work, and the end result, will be weak.

As I work on my own memoir, this question keeps churning, the answers still forming. I’m part-way through the manuscript, and the act of writing it, to me, is a continuation of a life journey. Even though I already lived the events, I’m not yet sure how the story will turn out, because memoir is not about recounting the facts and details of what happened in your life; it is about the emotion that is woven into the details, the humanity that rises gently from the words.

There is another question that enters my mind, too—why not write something else, something less revealing? Something that you’ll never have to defend to your relatives, that doesn’t leave you naked as a newborn?

As many writers will attest, when a story needs to come out, it needs to come out, as in keeping it in any longer may stunt your growth. That’s how I feel about my story. When it comes to how to get the story out, it’s a matter of authenticity. I could try it as fiction, but just as writers have to get to know their characters and allow their characters to inform the plot, I can’t give in to the idea of fictional characters running away with my story (unless my character were to end up living on an island in the Caribbean with a pet iguana named Rufus who was trained to fetch me drinks and balance them on his spiny little back… and now you see why I’m not writing fiction…).

As daffy as it may sound, I’m also writing memoir as a way of deepening my existing relationships. I don’t always know how to let people in; I do know how to write intensely personal stories, and that’s one way I can open the door. Natalie Goldberg says, “Writing is a path to meet ourselves and become intimate.” Writing memoir extends that path to those around us.

It’s also a vehicle for creating a broader human connection. For anyone who has ever felt love, fear, greed, or any of the other human motivators, memoir reminds us that we share all of these intrinsic feelings and experiences. I am not alone, and you are not alone.

Finally, even though there are plenty of editors and book critics out there who strongly advise against memoir as a self-serving or cathartic exercise (and I wholeheartedly agree), it doesn’t mean that I’m not writing it for myself, to some degree. A writing instructor (who is also a memoirist) said to me last year, “we write ourselves real.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than I felt a large rush of air leave my body. Whoosh. There it was. I want to be real. The stories I want to tell are very much alive inside me, and as long as they remain a part of my inside-only character, I feel like I’m faking my life.

Those are my reasons for writing memoir. Now I’d like to hear from you! What do you enjoy about reading memoir? Have you ever thought about writing about your life? And if you already have, how did the journey unfold for you?

I’ll close by expressing my deep gratitude to Tess for inviting me to be a part of her wonderful blog, and to everyone who joins us here and shares their thoughts.

***

Laura Zera is an author and project consultant who has lived and worked in Cameroon, Canada, South Africa, and the United States. A contributor to GoodFood World, she is working on a memoir about being raised by a schizophrenic mother. Laura’s first book, 2004’s Tro-tros and Potholes, chronicles her solo adventures through five countries of West Africa, and her work can also be found in the anthology Write for the Fight: A Collection of Seasonal Essays. She is currently in the process of trying to adopt an iguana named Rufus. Follow her on Twitter @laurazera and visit her blog. 

It was wonderful to dig down deep with CJ into the essential things that matter. I’ve included the link here in case you want to listen to us chatting about our experiences transitioning from lives slowly killing anything that made us special to creating the lives we wanted. I hope you’ll find something relevant for your own experience. Aloha.

This is my daughter’s third grade class. I’ve come to talk about writing.

Their teacher is young and pretty with smooth skin and hair like a shiny, brown ribbon floating about her shoulders.  Without hesitation, like a shepherd with her flock, she guides them to their desks and a hush falls over the room.

Always the over-achiever, I’ve worked on the presentation for several days. I have seventeen slides, including several cartoons for comic relief, wanting to make an impression about writing they can take with them into their academic careers, and beyond, to whatever kind of work they do.

I walk to the front of the room, where my presentation is displayed on a modern replacement of the chalkboard. They laugh when I don’t know how to use the pointer to change the slides.

“Why is it important we write well?” I ask.

A petite girl with sharp eyes in the front row raises her hand. “Because no matter what kind of job we have, we’ll have to write something that people can understand.”

“Who here thinks they’re a good writer?”

Almost every hand goes up, including my own daughter’s. I almost choke up at this onslaught of youthful confidence and innocence. The world hasn’t beaten them down yet, I think. I make a mental note to share this with the adult professional writers I know.

Regardless, I ask them if they know what an inner critic is. They do not. I explain to them that it the voice in their heads that says mean things to them while they’re writing. They understand. They almost all raise their hands when I ask if they’ve ever experienced their inner critic.

We talk a little about the importance of grammar. I put up a slide with an example of comma use.

Let’s eat Grampa!

Let’s eat, Grampa!

Commas save lives!

It takes them a moment, but they get it. A boy in the front, with soft eyes like a fawn, laughs the loudest.  He repeats, “Commas save lives!”

For the first exercise, I ask them to all write letters to their inner critics. “We’re not afraid of you,” we tell him/her, “because we have a magic tool called editing.”

Their teacher participates in the exercise with them, sitting next to one of her students. She knows that to be a learner is a lifetime commitment.

Our second exercise is to speed-write, using one of my prompts. They choose between non-fiction, fiction or memoir. Their heads bend over paper; they write with furious intent.

After we go over editing tips, they work on their pieces some more. Then it is time to ask questions of the writer. They, primarily, want to know how long it took to write Riversong.

I tell them the truth, about the arduous rewriting efforts that spanned two years, of the difficulty in finding a publisher. And I share the good too – the number 1 Nook Book bestseller spot and how joyous it is to hear from readers.

And, finally, the last question of the day is asked by a tall, athletic girl with honey-colored hair and wide, enthusiastic eyes, fidgeting at the edge of her seat.  “What’s it like to be a novelist because I think I might like to be one too?”

Again, I try to tell the truth as I’ve experienced it. I describe the work as long and sometimes tedious, but with moments, even days, so delightful that all the hard hours are forgotten.

“Like when you hit number one,” the fawn-eyed boy says.

“Yeah, good example,” I say, laughing.

What I can’t explain, though, that they will discover for themselves some other time, somewhere between 9 and 90, is that they, like me, will find a sort of work they are made to do, that feels so right they will make great sacrifices in order to do it.  They’ll know when they find it because even though there will be difficult moments, it won’t feel like a job but like a life’s work. They will understand in that deep place inside themselves that it is their destiny.

As I pack up my things to go back to my desk and work on my latest novel, I wish this for them. Because I know it matters more than money or fame or prestige. Finding and doing work you love leads to all good things. Oh, how I wish it for them.