I was looking for a class to work on my writing. A lifelong love, I had never done anything meaningful to pursue. And so it goes with carving out time for a new hobby from the pile of never-ending life obligations. After years of considering it, I finally did an online search. The Writers Circle appeared quickly. A local “creative writing workshop and community for all ages.” Perfect.
I began scrolling through their adult workshop catalog. What kind of writing was I seeking? Up first, “Where Do I Begin?” They were reading my mind already. I kept scrolling, “Writing in Nature”, “Short Stories & Flash Fiction”, “Mystery Writers”, “Poetry”, “Kid Lit”. I read the short descriptions, wondering if the interest I felt in the tiny paragraphs was the pull I needed to commit to an eight-week course.
I glanced through the classes. Each a different day and time. Meeting virtually or in person, spanning several towns that I have easy access to. Verona, Morristown, Summit, Maplewood. I got excited thinking about getting to know a new place, but settled on a virtual Memoir Writers Circle, the most interesting topic to me that fit into my schedule.
My teacher, Jill, an award-winning journalist and published author, sent out a welcome email on Thursday before our first Monday class. During the two-hour class, four volunteers would each have 30 minutes to read a chapter or essay and respond to comments.
In my first class, I was the only new member out of the 12 participants. Yikes. Nerves kicked in. This is the sort of moment that can end a new endeavor. What was I thinking? I should back out of this, we tell ourselves. Because we don’t get to practice this feeling too often as adults unless we chase it. I realize now that being uncomfortable and doing it anyway is exactly what makes a great writer.
In that first class, I learned so much just by listening. The smallest moments can make the biggest impact. Humor in tragedy can be extremely effective. The more vulnerable a writer is, the more interesting their story. Show, don’t tell.
When Jill asked for volunteers for the following week, I raised my hand, not really knowing exactly what I would read. I had written plenty of narrative works over the three previous years, since my business closed, but were any of them memoir-worthy? I landed on writing a fresh take on a story about my height, six feet tall, knowing that if we were an in-person class, it would be the first thing everyone would notice about me. Like it always is.
I had never read my writing out loud before. Certainly not to strangers. It felt wonderful and exhilarating, and it helped that they loved it. I heard my own words read back to me as someone shared their favorite line. I answered questions about what it felt like to be the tallest person in every example I shared from growing up. I heard from Jill, who said, “Everyone has a story inside of them, and this might be yours.”
I just began my second year in the Memoir Writers Circle. I have raised my hand again and again and again, giving myself a new, necessary deadline to actually write something new, expand the story, and share what I have never written down before. And slowly, after weeks and weeks of getting words on a page, I am able to say, “I’m writing a memoir.”