Last night I saw Carolyn Doyle's "Confessions of a Refrigerator Mother" with Adam, Marcus, Angela and Chris. The upstairs theater was packed and Carolyn put herself at the heart of all of it, standing inches from the audience as she shared her story of having an autistic son.
I cried throughout a majority of it. Many of my tears came from Carolyn's searing honesty and her openness. Others came from the ongoing struggle with telling my own tale.
When did it get so hard?
When I started, my biggest fear was the telling of the story, not what it contained. That was years ago, I rationalized. I'm beyond it now.
Nope. Sorry. Buzz. Try again.
When I fell into depression this winter, a friend counseled me to stop writing for a while. "It's hurting, not helping," she said. I pressed on.
Now I need to finish. There is no choice. It's not that the world will end if this story goes untold, or that I will crumble into dust. It's that I've started something, and I will see it through.
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2 comments:
This is a really timely post as I just started reading Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury. Have you ever read it? If not, I recommend it. The first chapter addresses what you're talking about here.
And talk about timely -- that book is sitting on my coffee table as we speak. It's been on my agenda for a while and it looks like I gotta get to it!
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