In the beginning of the Bible—excuse me, The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr warns potential memoirists that “everybody […] who wades deep enough into memory’s waters drowns a little” (27).

I highlighted this sentence, thinking, What a good bit of imagery, and moved along with my reading. Later, on a bad writing day, I dutifully copied the line into a “commonplace book [1],” one of Ms. Karr’s suggestions in Chapter 19 for helping a “stalled novice” get out of a rut (171).

“We don’t see events objectively; we perceive them through ourselves. And we remember through a filter of both who we are now and who we once were. So, the best voices include a writer’s insides. Watching her mind feel around to concoct or figure out events, you never lose sight of the ego’s shape, its blind spots, dislikes, wants. […] [A] memoirist can’t help but show at each bump in the road how her perceptual filter is distorting what’s being taken in. […] [S]he questions her own perceptions as part of the writing process. […] Just as memory distorts, so too does the ego’s synthesizer shape even the simplest of our sensations, and voice should reflect that distortion.” (Karr 47-48)

Months would go by before the truth of the line struck me, and I saw it for more than just a beautiful piece of poetry.

I walk toward my Past, a glimmering ocean in the distance.

Blink and it’s gone, a mirage. My steps falter, doubt creeping in. Keep walking. I move forward, and there it is again. My Past beckons me home, but the closer I get to the unnaturally still surface, the more uneasy I feel. I don’t belong here. There are no ripples, no waves, only a dark looking-glass surface. Pristine and undisturbed. I can’t see the bottom.

I stop at the edge of the sugar-white shore, my toes brushing the freezing water. The ocean recoils out of reach. Vibrations run from my feet to my head, gooseflesh covering my naked skin. I long to shield my Soul in a protective blanket, but I will not. I must not if I want to feel everything my Past has to show me.

I take a deep breath and step forward.

My Past resists my efforts, pulling away from me like it’s some mysterious, unknowable thing I can’t possibly comprehend, but I’m not Jesus. The sea can’t part for me, nor can I walk on water, so with one more determined step, the cold water comes rushing in.

Elated, and oblivious to the shifting tide, I take a few more steps. As memories stream past my grasping hands, gentle waves lap at my ankles, then my knees. The farther back in my Past I reach, the deeper I wade into the ocean, the fiercer the surf becomes.

Suddenly, I’m up to my neck in memories, flooded with old emotions and thoughts, hopes and fears; the water rises above my nose. My six-year-old self’s heartache is as fresh as the newly sharpened pencil on my desk. I’m overwhelmed by the confusion and pain in her heart. My eyes widen as I look at the ocean roiling about me, finally noticing the uproarious state of my Past just as my foot slips on a slimy rock hidden beneath the choppy waves.

My head goes under, and I’m drowning in memory.

My comfortable, up until now, understanding of my past and who I am and was is under continual attack [2]. The first couple of times this happens, it’s unsettling. It’s scary, even, because you start to question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

That time your sister unfairly stole your favorite toy when you two were kids, which you thought you remembered so well? Actually, your mom gave it to her to play with after you wouldn’t share your toys with her. You can see that now, as an adult looking back on the memory with no ulterior motive but getting to the truth, but when you thought about it as a kid, you only saw it your way. That mostly made-up example is on the less extreme side, but imagine some of your deepest memories, which have shaped who you are as a person, potentially being incorrect or misremembered. Now, that could drown a bitch.

“The inability to don angel wings—to shirk culpability or justify past sins—seems innate to the voice of every memoirist I revere. The life chroniclers who endure as real artists come across as folks particularly schooled in their own rich inner geographies. A quest for self-knowledge drives such a writer to push past the normal vanity she brings to party dressing. She somehow manages to show up at the ball boldly naked.” (Karr 49)

A/N: Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death. I wanted this piece to be about him, and it is in a way, but my pen kept skating around the daddy-sized hole he’s left in my heart. It was just too hard for me to talk about him, specifically, the way I planned to. I’m feeling guilty this post turned out to not be about him, the way I wanted. To those who clicked on the post expecting it to be solely about him and were disappointed, I apologize.

[1] I did mod-podge the cover with magazine cutouts, so I’m not sure if my notebook still falls under the category of commonplace, but I did my best. I just can’t help myself with mod-podge.

[2] Daily life doesn’t require us to reflect on our personal pasts, let alone question the validity of our recollections. It’s through this memoir process that I’ve had some of the most life-changing revelations about myself and my dad. I know I sound like a crazy person saying this, but it makes me want to go up to random people on the street and tell them, “You should write a memoir!”

Sources:

Karr, Mary. The Art of Memoir. HarperCollins, 2015

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

See Full Bio