I wrote a memoir. Now what?
In which I explain this crazy little thing called query. Poetically.
I wrote a memoir
Told my story, the train wreck
Loss, grief, betrayal, subterfuge
death—so much death; suicides—so much suicide
estrangement, manipulation
breakage, pain, rebirth
Mistakes - I made a few, but then again . . .
I told my story, naked,
parading it around first in my mind
and then in front of the bathroom mirror,
staring out the living room window, practicing,
maybe some peeping Tom will see inside
maybe someone will be interested
I know they’ll be interested
because I’ve told these stories for years
polished them with my tongue and always
jaws drop to floor, tears well in eyes, in eyewells
Well
And good, but Moth radio is different than a book.
I dressed my story in silk and leather
gave it the finest clothes known - The Waste Land
It’s well known that clothes make the man
That clothes choose the man
Not the other way around.
I had no choice in the matter.
So now I query. But, I query, what is this elusive thing called
QUERY?
I read, I practice. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen or written.
How to wrap a full wardrobe into a single outfit?
That is not what I meant, that is not what I meant at all.
I try again, seek help.
This memoir, it’s different - tied to The Waste Land, it is.
How does one escape the prevalence
of mental illness in one’s family,
3 suicides,
or 4
depending on how you count,
And another by my mentor - who is there to guide me?
Always looking over my shoulder
But at my back I always hear . . .
And then, the toxic relationships
Boom! family gone
Boom! spouse gone
Boom! chosen family gone
It’s enough to make anyone break
Or pause.
I don’t, break that is.
I’ve learned to bend in the wind.
Now I must learn to stand up straight,
to strengthen and resolve
and light the fuse to put an end to this pain
fight fire with fire.
How do you tell the story of one who is not mentally ill,
a life derailed by other people’s mental illnesses
without seeming to flutter around like a leaf on the wind?
No, I am not Hamlet, but an attendant lord…..
And yet, I have free will.
Yes, I’ve made mistakes. But then, I’m still here,
And I’ve written a book. See?
It’s a train wreck. My story, not the book.
The book is art, artistic, artful.
The book is my story, gilt in ribbons and the finest clothes.
You’ll like it.
You won’t be able to look away.
Thank you for your support in my quest for traditional publication of my memoir. Subscriptions to this newsletter are free, or you can donate the cost of one cup of coffee per month to help support my efforts.
Please share this post and my newsletter with others. I write about:
writing and the writing life
writing process
memoir craft
mental illness - major depressive disorder, suicide, borderline personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder
sailing
alternative lifestyles - polyamory and kink
Enjoy your weekend. I hope the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday has a gathering in store that eases some of the pandemic pain of the last few years.
For me, I’ll . . .
Just keep writing!
Leave your comments below. Have you written a memoir? Tell me about it. Are you querying? Do you have any query stories? Is querying the best thing since sliced root canal? Tell me your query stories - good and bad!
Oh, and let’s have a chat.