(But first, a bit of rambling.)
I was just going back through all of my posts and
"labeling" them. I have another blog, on Wordpress, with 271
followers. It's well-read, and that may be because I tag my posts on that blog.
As a matter of fact, the tags are so effective that if you Google a certain
word that I've tagged numerous times (I won't tell you which word), a bunch of my pictures show up in Google Images.
That's pretty exciting. That, and, I think more people are interested in
photography than about some chick losing her marbles and trying to gather them
up again. I think actual marbles are probably more interesting than that. They are pretty
cool-looking.
I had labeled my posts here on this blog
in the past, but then I removed all the labels because I was only allowed 200
characters per "bunch of labels", and I had a hard time excluding
certain ones. But, with my Google Images discovery, I decided to add labels
back on to my posts here yesterday.
In so doing, of course, I had to read
through each post again to find keywords. And when I read them, I was more than
a little embarrassed, and more than just a few times, I just wanted to skim over
the incoherence and delete the post entirely in disgust. I dunno, maybe it's a
good thing I only have one follower here. (But thank you so very much, you
loyal follower, you.)
I didn't really stick to my original plan
for this blog, at all. I wanted to write about relationships I've had, from
childhood through now. But there are many posts where I'm ruminating and trying
to “make sense” of "everything" in a sort of "diary" or
journal-istic kind of way. Begrudgingly, I've decided not to delete anything – who wouldn't want to keep a record of
her own insanity? (That's only half sarcastic.) But now, I'm finally working on the real thing. The word is memoir (n.): account, biography, history,
chronicle, record – those are some of its synonyms. I believe a memoir answers
the question, “What happened?” Further details provide answers to who, when, where, and
how, but as for the why – if I don’t have the answer to that myself, perhaps I
oughtn’t tackle that question. At least, not yet. Or maybe I’ll leave that to
the readers’ interpretations entirely.
I still appreciate my inventory - it was a
good start. But, instead of picking men with whom I’ve been involved at random about
whom to write (the word “random” here modifies the “picking”, although it could
certainly modify the being “involved”, in plenty of cases), my goal now is to chronicle
– chronologically – the who, what, when, where, and how, in a coherent fashion.
I’m reducing each “chapter” to such minimal elements. I'm not interested in
superfluous, mellifluous, figurative, and whatever-other-adjectives-make-for "intelligent"-sounding
language. I’m interested in the clear facts, subject-verb style. I think of
Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and
maybe a bit of Stephen King (I always hated King’s style – such simple
sentences got on my nerves). And of course Brad Land - I'm throwing quotations marks out the window for now, to save time (but I won't throw out periods or capitalization, most likely).
Ultimately, my hope is to get help with my writing
at some point, and I think the best way is to start with nearly
nothing, leaving room for plenty of notes. I prefer building slowly upon a foundation to repainting, remodeling, or downright unmerciful demolition.
I'll be adding much. I'll expand, expound, describe. I’ll have places in my outline where I’ll say, “Ooh, this will be
a good place to go back to add a scene from my childhood.” That's what all the "good" memoirs seem to do.
But now that I've superfluously expounded upon writing, here's some more actual writing (again, bare bones, subject-verb style). Here's my memoir outline, 4-6, draft 4:
4
Evan and I have been having sex for two weeks, since the night
I left Ronnie. I’ve been seeing Lyle back at the apartment every day and still
working. I lie to Ronnie and say I’ve been going between my aunt Jessie’s and my
friend Rochelle’s. I don’t tell Ronnie about Evan. I can’t live at Evan’s
parents’, so I’ve decided to live with my aunt Jessie. I’ve been getting things
from the apartment and out of storage and taking them to my aunt’s. Clothes,
books. I used to live there in high school.
I’m in Evan’s car. We’re kissing. I love you, I say. Don’t
use those words, he says. I’m sorry, I say. I guess I’m just so used to saying that,
I say. Don’t worry about it, he says. We kiss some more.
Evan goes to work and I go back to the apartment to see
Lyle and to get more things. I get in a fight with Ronnie. He takes the car keys
away from me. I put a bunch of my CDs in a bag and sling it over my shoulder
and I go out walking.
I go down Ammunition and turn left down Main St. I walk
about a mile-and-a-half.
The Irish Pub. There’s a band playing. I go inside. It's The Clovers. I recognize the piano player. It’s Jennie. She and I were in the
music program together at Mira Costa Community College,
where I sang and she accompanied me. I drink a few bloody maries and listen to
them play. I talk to some people I recognize from high school. Aaron Simpson wants
my phone number but I don’t give it to him. I have a boyfriend, I say. I call
Evan to come pick me up.
5
I go back to the apartment to get bill stubs for the
dissolution paperwork and to spend time with Lyle. Ronnie lets me in, like he
has for the past two months. Lyle and I watch Barney together while Ronnie asks
me questions.
I get the bill stubs out of the closet and start putting
them in a box. Ronnie comes in and starts taking them out of the box. You aren’t
taking anything with my name on it, he says. I put them back in the box. Yes I
am, I say. He grabs the box. I grab the box. He grabs my arms. Lyle comes in.
I go to pick him up but Ronnie picks him up first. I punch Ronnie in the face.
Lyle is crying. I grab the box and I leave.
6
I take Lyle out to the park on my days
off. I go to pick him up.
Ronnie’s mom comes down the steps and I roll my window down.
She hands me some papers, stapled, and walks away. I start reading. It’s a
restraining order. I have to stay away from Lyle and Ronnie. I can’t contact
Ronnie at all.
I scream and cry and beat my steering wheel and I plead with
God. I turn the ignition, put the car in reverse, and then I drive to the
courthouse, crying.
There isn’t anything I can do, they say. Just have to wait
for the court date in three weeks, they say.
