OPINION: Having recently attended a memoir writing course, I asked myself, “What is my reason, or need, to write a memoir?” I found it to be a challenging question, given that I’ve always thought of my life as, while not boring, quite ordinary.
I have a vision – and a bloody great lump in my throat – of helping officers two years ago load my 43-year-old daughter gently and sadly into an ambulance for what would be her final journey. My heart just about stopped, looking at her and realising she wouldn’t be coming home. Is that ordinary?
“You can’t stay with me, I have no place for you.” These words slammed into my heart like a defibrillator on steroids. They were spoken by a barely coping young woman to her fetus as she made her way to an abortion clinic.
She hoped the foetus would understand and love lasted between them. I don’t judge her decision, I just keenly and sadly feel the power of this tragedy.
You can’t stay with me, I have no place for you. Her sad words sat me fairly on my backside as 40 years ago I uttered those very same, sad words, not to a fetus, but to the likeable sad, young bloke who was a part of me I was leaving behind.
It was 1981; I was 33 years old. I spoke those words as I was leaving the alcohol rehab centre where I had “dried out” over the previous 12 weeks.
I said to him, “Sorry, Bud, but you’re on the bottle and I’m on the wagon.” Is that ordinary?
Twenty-two years ago, while living as a solo dad and looking after my 16-year-old son, I was violently woken by a 2am knock on the door. That knock is every parent’s worst nightmare. There was a policeman saying, “I’m sorry, Mr Smith, but your son is dead.” What happened to that ordinary life? There’s probably no such thing and everyone’s life is actually extraordinary.
So a memoir, why? Well, for me, it’s all about expression. I don’t do email or internet. I write letters long hand. When my boy Paki died, I remember sitting, very frustrated with my pen, trying to write to my sister about how I was feeling. I sat there for a long time with a blank page, as I just didn’t, and still don’t, have the words to express how I feel about such as event.
Yes, I know, there are words like devastated, sad, but they don’t go anywhere near expressing the depth of feeling that I live with, remembering those deaths.
Certain pieces of classical music will stop me in my tracks; I’ll plumb that deep, usually unavailable emotional place inside myself. It would seem as though in writing of such happenings, I also get a journey to that rich, deep place within. This is a gift, of course, as the normal humdrum of everyday life keeps us safe from the terrors of this deep, dark place within.
I recently attended a bereavement support group where I talked about my “ordinary” life. I’ve never climbed Aoraki/Mt Cook but sitting there, listening to all the tragic tales of loss, told me we’re all mountaineering in a cold, dark place.
Well, this memoir will cover 75 years, and it’s certainly not all misery. In fact, there are screeds of happy memories. I would really encourage the writing process as it can take us on an often-forgotten journey back to the beginning.
My Uncle Peter died recently but even though he was a pretty interesting bloke, his “life story” amounted to just a few pages. By the time he wrote it he was already quite sick. And that’s another reason for me to write my “ordinary” memoir.
Colin Smith, a father of four, lives in Motueka.
