One of the best things about surfing around Blogland is having the opportunity to meet people who become so much more than just avatars and screen names. Through reading posts, leaving comments, and interacting by email, several people I’ve rubbed digital shoulders with in recent months have moved beyond faces and words on a webpage to kindred spirits . . . soul mates.
One such person is Christine, known around the blogosphere as Flutter. Her posts push me, motivate me, and tickle the part of my brain that loves writing and those who do it well. To visit her blog is to experience a broad spectrum of emotions.
Life, work and school have been handing my ass to me as of late, so I asked Christine if she’d kindly write a guest post for The Cheek of God. She’s a very busy gal, so I’m thrilled that she agreed.
So, in lieu of a “woe-is-me” post where I bore you with the details of why I haven’t posted since last Tuesday, I’m privileged to offer you the words of a friend . . .
The act of writing is an inspired thing. You either feel compelled, or you don’t. For those of us who feel compelled, writing is an act akin to breathing.
Sometimes labored, sometimes natural, always necessary. Expression is historically documented, our written history the labor of love of those who took it upon themselves to archive. This creates a different perspective when evaluating history. When we consider the personal perspective that leaks into the gathering and the telling of fact. How fact changes depending on the view of the person telling the story.
Memoir is a blessing of history. Our own personal histories gathered, archived, shared. Memoir writing is an act of therapeutic healing. To tell our own stories is to give credence to the experience. To tell our truths is an act of bravery. Even if the story seems mundane to our own eyes, our stories have the power to heal, to unite, to teach.
My own memoir is a history of sexual assault and the subsequent decade plus of self abusive patterns. I am finally putting them to rest by placing them on the table. When brought to light, our own personal tragedies lose power. They become yet another brick in our collective ruins, ready to tumble. Such has been my experience in telling my own stories on my blog, and as I work on my book.
Bravery is essential in the memoir, as is delicacy, brutality, sensitivity and honesty. But all of these are essential to you and only you. You are not writing for your audience, in a memoir. You are writing a resonant truth. Your truth will resonate with your audience when it resonates with you. When you are touched, they are touched, when you are full, so are they.
It is the best kind of therapy, our personal histories. They are born of our eyes and can only be told by us. They are stories that need to be heard. They are history in the making.
To experience Flutter in all her finest “delicacy, brutality, sensitivity and honesty,” visit her blog and spend some time getting to know her. You won’t be the same . . .