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I Like The Made Up Stuff Best
As I may have mentioned in a previous blog, I was encouraged to teach a writing class at a local community college last spring. I crafted a six-week continuing education course on the basics of fiction writing (ideas, plot, characters, setting, etc.) and it took off. The first session I taught met its student cap, and the second session was within two students of doing the same.
Yay me!
Since the college liked what they saw, they encouraged me to offer an additional class—this one designed to explore various aspects of the creative writing process. And I, being the trained monkey that I am, did just that…
Last Wednesday was the kick-off for my new class and it went really well. We focused on feature articles and the importance of finding just the right lead (not much different than a novel or short story). I was in my element thanks to my days as a working journalist and it showed. Seriously, you can stick me in front of a random subject and time me with a stopwatch. In less than five minutes I can nose out a feature article. And inside seven, I can tell you exactly what my lead will be.
It’s a sickness, really.
Tomorrow night, however, will be a different story as we take a look at something I’ve never tried to write…
Memoirs.
I’d insert a groan here but that would imply boredom. So I’ll stick with something a bit more accurate…
Why the pathetic face, you ask?
Well, I’ve been dabbling with various genres of fiction for more years than I can remember. And I’ve got the journalism thing down pretty well. But writing about myself?!?!?
Uhhhh, I think I’ll pass.
You see, just as fiction is an escape for readers, it’s also an escape for writers. At least this one anyway.
For me, crafting a story is about putting the pieces of a puzzle together—a puzzle where I happily grab for each new piece in an attempt to complete the picture I’ve carried in my head for several weeks or months.
The puzzle that is me, though, isn’t quite so fun. I may know who I am on most levels but I’m still actively assembling all the pieces that make up the whole picture. Some of the pieces are easy to place and manage to elicit a smile or a laugh. But some pieces can be almost painful to set down because they elicit something very different than a smile. One might bring fear, another pain. One might bring uncertainty, another tears.
In fiction, you can always line through a portion of your outline or kill off a character if you find yourself in uncomfortable territory.
In real life there’s no white-out or erasing. And while it can be mighty tempting to toss some of those rougher puzzle pieces back into the box, the picture that is me isn’t me without all the pieces. The good. The bad. And the ugly.
One day, maybe, I’ll work some of those pieces into something I write and maybe it will end up being therapeutic. But for now, fiction is the puzzle I find less daunting. Which is why I’ll leave the actual memoir writing to my students tomorrow night as I stand nearby, ready to offer a slew of researched tips or to read excerpts from published works as necessary. 
Really. It’s either that or drag out the story of the evil poodle who snatched my lunch sack from my tiny hand—making off with my coveted meatloaf sandwich as I waited for the school bus one cold, snowy morning…
So how about you? Ever try to write about something you’ve experienced—good, bad, or ugly? Have you shown it to anyone?
And if you haven’t done either, tell us your own “evil poodle” memory. Surely everyone has one of those, right?
Hugs,
~Laura
