Medusa didn’t ask to petrify.
She just looked too closely, and everyone left with something hardening inside them. That’s how I feel some days—like I could name someone’s worst moment and be right. It’s not the curse that scares me; it’s how easily I see myself in it. I don’t turn people to stone. I just write the kind of sentence that makes them wish I hadn’t looked so long.
Lately, imposter syndrome’s been creeping in again. Not in the loud, anxious way it hit me at first, but as something quieter—background static. Every time I sit down to write, I wonder if I’m making everything too heavy. Or too light. Or if what I’m saying even matters to anyone but me.
I know I can’t literally turn someone into a statue. Obviously.
But it’s a real fear for anyone writing memoir: the worry that my gaze, my words, might fix someone in place. Maybe for the world. Maybe just for myself—turning someone into a single story or trapping them in a moment they’d rather forget. Sometimes, all it takes is one sentence that rings too true to shake off, and that’s what people remember.
That’s the risk when you write about true blue people and not made up characters. My daddy, the women in his life, even myself. There’s a pulse in my chest: What if I get it wrong? What if I get it too right? What if I name the hard thing nobody wants to admit, and it sticks—for good?
It’s not just: Is my story worth telling? It’s: Am I hurting people by telling it?
Sometimes I imagine the grand poohbah of memoir, Mary Karr, staring down the same blank page, thinking: Who am I to write this? I find that comforting and also slightly mortifying—if even She couldn’t shake the feeling after three memoirs, what chance do the rest of us have?
Most days, the doubt sounds like my own voice. Some days, it borrows the scolding tone of my sixth grade teacher, or the kid who used to pull my hair in second grade. The urge to flinch, to look away, is always right at the edge of my vision. But I keep looking anyway.
I work hard to write everyone in the best possible light—sometimes squinting at the page, hoping to soften the memories that still sting. But there’s no way to do it perfectly. I know that now.
The truth is, even as I worry about hardening someone with a sentence, I know what it’s like to be hardened by someone else’s story. Like reading a public post and seeing myself twisted into the villain. That old ache—trying so hard to be fair, only to find out I was never really in control of how my story got told. That’s the knot: memoir is all risk, no guarantees.
People love to talk about Medusa as the monster, as if she chose her curse. But she just wanted to be left alone. If I’m being honest, some days I wish I could look away—let the world be blurry and safe, keep everyone soft around the edges. But I can’t. The curse, if there is one, is needing to see things as they are—and needing to say them out loud, even when saying it hurts.
It’s not about vengeance.
It’s not about proving anything.
It is being unable to stop looking back,
just trying to make sense of who I am.
So I keep writing. Some days I’m afraid of what I might find out. Some days I wish I could sand down every edge. Most days, I trust that really looking is better than pretending. But if I’m being honest, I’d trade every hard-earned sentence for just one honest conversation.
Some people won’t ever budge, no matter how honestly you look at them. Sometimes, writing’s the only way to keep trying. If I can’t talk to you, at least I can keep trying to see you. That’s what the writing’s for.
If you’re scared of your own gaze, you’re not a monster for seeing. But you’re not alone if you wish you could just talk it through, instead of having to write it down.
inspo: memoir musings // my vast insecurities // Medusa’s mythos // an old Facebook post I hadn’t seen before // The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr // my precious little feelings were hurt, mostly // chicken or the egg conundrum re. the Medusa poem (attached below), they inspired each other but I suppose the poem was finished first
Medusa didn’t ask to petrify.
She just looked too closely,
and no one left without something hardening.
That’s how I feel, some days—
like I could name someone’s worst moment
and be right.
That’s the part that scares me:
not the curse,
but how easily it fits.
I don’t turn people to stone.
I just write the kinda sentence that
makes them wish I hadn’t looked so long.
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This is an interesting post Kenzie- you have to be true to your story wherever it takes you.
Another amazing and extremely engaging installment, Kenzie.
This right here:
“memoir is all risk, no guarantees”
This is true of almost everything human, I suppose – and yet, so terrifying.
In my humble experience and opinion: speaking truth (to ourselves and to others) is always the best option – especially in those cases, which require great courage.
I continue to marvel at your ability to do so publicly – so eloquently – and in my opinion, with great kindness.
Thank you, Ms Darlene. I feel like I haven’t been as kind as I could be, at least online, especially when it comes to certain people I feel wronged me or my family. But I also feel like emotional honesty is paramount since that’s how I’m navigating the memoir. If readers can’t trust my emotions, they won’t trust anything I have to say. So as much as my strong outbursts of anger or despair in some of these posts make me cringe, it feels wrong to try to soften those sharp edges. I’m highly emotional, so I have to remind myself constantly that while I feel melodramatic that’s genuinely who I am inside. But I still have to write responsibly regardless of how strongly I feel because I’m not always right and I know there will be aspects to my story that I won’t be aware of. Especially with my daddy dead and gone, no longer here to ask. It’s hard sometimes not to get swept up in all my feelings, past and present, but writing this blog has helped keep me grounded. Since it is so public, I’m reminded how public my memoir will also be once I finish it. Any mistakes I make or leaps (making connections where there aren’t any is a big fear) will be permanent, so I’m doing my best to not do that at all in my writing. Intentionally or unintentionally, with no leading phrases or scenes. That’s easier said than done. And then I start spiraling about which memories are worth capturing. It’s a delicate dance I’m still learning, but the process has been so healing and worth it. I’m grateful you’ve come along with me and have been so supportive. It means more than you’ll ever know. (And I’m not sure why I had to approve your comment after you’ve left so many but I’m guessing it’s to do with WordPress, so let’s hope whichever platform I switch to fixes these issues!)