I’m taking this class called Memoir this semester. This semester being my first semester as a graduate student in the Professional and Technical Writing Program. I am so very excited this class. Thus, I’ve decided to share the writing we do in class. This piece of writing is from the first day of class last Tuesday, August 25th. We had to answer what our anxieties or insecurities are when it comes to writing memoir. Here are my thoughts.
Memoir Journal 1 (August 25th, 2020)
I know that everyone has traumas in their life, and as someone who has only started to write about mine, my fear or anxiety, what have you, is being vulnerable. I have good and bad stories of my life. But it is the bad I want to write. Almost like by putting those stories, those words on paper, I am purging myself of those memories. While I know that no one will judge, in fact, I know that I might find comfort in not only writing these stories, but also from everyone. It is difficult for me to be vulnerable. Yet I know this is something I want to write. No. This is something I need to write. It’s like bursting out of me. Writing for me has always been an escape. That’s why I write fiction. I get to create a story. Make a better ending. And while I will still continue to do that, I also want the truth. I want to show my truth and reveal who I am, and how I got here. Why I am who I am. I don’t want writing to be an escape. I want it to be an adventure. A solace. A way to put down the things I’ve only really thought. I’ve never been good at talking about feelings. But I can put those feelings on paper. Yes that makes them real. But that reality is necessary. Writing is more than an escape. It’s an adventure, an exploration. Writing is a solace. A way to express thoughts. Yes, writing about my childhood gives me anxiety because I barely talk about it. But I want to write. To be vulnerable. Perhaps by writing about it, I can find a new way to perceive it. I can recognize things that as a jaded, angry teenager, I never realized. I’ not the same person I was 10 years ago. I have grown and changed. And maybe by writing about my childhood, I can finally move on. Let out that 5 year old girl. Be free. And maybe, just maybe, find a little solace of my own.