So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change. I thought it would be so easy. I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative?
NOT, that's how easy. I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting. And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless. And that's not the only surprise stumbling block...
When I tell people what I'm writing about, they all seem shocked and impressed that I'm willing to talk so openly about my body insecurities. They seem to think that's something most people would be uncomfortable with strangers reading. But I have no problems with that; strangers I'll never meet can know everything about my psychotic mind and I'll have no idea, so what's the big deal? What I didn't predict, and am having some serious issues with, is the whole classroom experience.
When we workshop our pieces in class, not only do our classmates read them, but we then read them aloud and discuss. This is extremely helpful, but it's also extremely difficult sometimes, like when you've written an on-the-fly piece describing in detail the hideousness of your ass. Yes, I did that. Last week. It was awkward to read aloud, and I kind of wanted to cry, and it was hard to convince myself that everyone in the room wasn't staring at my ass on the way out. But I did it.
It gave me pause, though. Writing has always been my favorite way to sort out my shit, get down feelings that I'm too embarassed to talk to someone about– the BF and I do some of our best relationship convos via email because we're not afraid to say things when the other person isn't staring back at us crying. The distance between writer and reader is my safety net. I'm much more comfortable writing a post here about my sex life or my jiggly shoulders than I am reading that same post aloud to a group of people I see twice a week.
And it's not just them. If this book (if I ever write it) does get published, my family might read it. I mean, they might not– they've never been the most interested in my writing– but if they do, and I've written about my mom's issues with body dysmorphia or my sister's terrible eating habits and sudden weight loss through thyroid medication, they might be hurt. But isn't that a memoirist's duty, to plow on without worrying about hurting people? I've kind of always thought that if the book is 85% me humiliating myself and 15% me humiliating others, then they should be able to forgive me, but humiliation isn't really relative, is it?
Gah. The more I think about all this the more I feel like I can't write this book. My teacher quoted somebody (she couldn't remember who) in class last week regarding the writing process: "successful writing requires an extremely high tolerance for imperfection in the early stages and an extremely low tolerance for it in the late stages." She was referring to the writing itself, and that certainly applies to me (I'm such a perfectionist about this stuff that I stop myself from getting anything done in the first place because it's never good enough), but I also think it applies to content and people you may hurt in the end. Best to worry about that stuff when the manuscript's first draft is finished, I suppose.
Ugh, but how can it ever be finished if I never start it?!
NOT, that's how easy. I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting. And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless. And that's not the only surprise stumbling block...
When I tell people what I'm writing about, they all seem shocked and impressed that I'm willing to talk so openly about my body insecurities. They seem to think that's something most people would be uncomfortable with strangers reading. But I have no problems with that; strangers I'll never meet can know everything about my psychotic mind and I'll have no idea, so what's the big deal? What I didn't predict, and am having some serious issues with, is the whole classroom experience.
When we workshop our pieces in class, not only do our classmates read them, but we then read them aloud and discuss. This is extremely helpful, but it's also extremely difficult sometimes, like when you've written an on-the-fly piece describing in detail the hideousness of your ass. Yes, I did that. Last week. It was awkward to read aloud, and I kind of wanted to cry, and it was hard to convince myself that everyone in the room wasn't staring at my ass on the way out. But I did it.
It gave me pause, though. Writing has always been my favorite way to sort out my shit, get down feelings that I'm too embarassed to talk to someone about– the BF and I do some of our best relationship convos via email because we're not afraid to say things when the other person isn't staring back at us crying. The distance between writer and reader is my safety net. I'm much more comfortable writing a post here about my sex life or my jiggly shoulders than I am reading that same post aloud to a group of people I see twice a week.
And it's not just them. If this book (if I ever write it) does get published, my family might read it. I mean, they might not– they've never been the most interested in my writing– but if they do, and I've written about my mom's issues with body dysmorphia or my sister's terrible eating habits and sudden weight loss through thyroid medication, they might be hurt. But isn't that a memoirist's duty, to plow on without worrying about hurting people? I've kind of always thought that if the book is 85% me humiliating myself and 15% me humiliating others, then they should be able to forgive me, but humiliation isn't really relative, is it?
Gah. The more I think about all this the more I feel like I can't write this book. My teacher quoted somebody (she couldn't remember who) in class last week regarding the writing process: "successful writing requires an extremely high tolerance for imperfection in the early stages and an extremely low tolerance for it in the late stages." She was referring to the writing itself, and that certainly applies to me (I'm such a perfectionist about this stuff that I stop myself from getting anything done in the first place because it's never good enough), but I also think it applies to content and people you may hurt in the end. Best to worry about that stuff when the manuscript's first draft is finished, I suppose.
Ugh, but how can it ever be finished if I never start it?!
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