Eighty-eight Percent

You’re not going to believe it, and I can hardly believe it, but guess what will be done by Friday? I mean it this time. I don’t mean another step will be done in the process of being done. I mean done and submitted to publishers done. I mean, as soon as I get a Query Letter, that is. Right now I’m 88% there.

Of course, I’m going to let mjp read it. He hasn’t read one iota of it. Can you believe it? Not that I would change it based on his opinion, unless it’s something that was already plaguing me. I may let a couple other people read it as well, but just to get feedback on specific aspects.

So it’s been weird and I keep thinking about this blog! I think about things to write on it all the time and why I started it in the first place. I have so much juicy content, but then I think about how I am just too fragile to share it. That’s really why it’s not active. I thought I would be able to share this whole process — and it’s not that I won’t. I still can. It’s just super raw right now.

If you want to write a memoir and you have gone through a lot of turmoil, I’d advise making twice the amount of therapy appointments than you usually make, and if you don’t already go to therapy, it will be a must. Because you will be reliving these terrible things over and over and over again. And you’d think that it would get easier. In some aspects it does. You process through many aspects of, say, rape or childhood abuse. You find out that you were not even present when it happened to you, which is good. You don’t want that happening to a little child or something. It all “happens” to you when you get older.

Each time you go through it, you pick up a new lesson or detail. What brought you to that place. All the things that lead you on that path that got you into that very position. You uncover your patterns too. You see where you have failed, where your parents failed, and how you coped with — not just those kinds of difficulties — but all your difficulties. We all have habits. Good and bad.

The memoir becomes a mirror you don’t necessarily want to look into. But you kinda have to in order to emerge out of the debris and the shit and the smoldering bombs that were thrown at you, or else…you’ll never change.

Author: Carol Es

was born, now here. will die.

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