I am working on a memoir right now, exploring a brief period of my life, which was both turbulent and psychologically insightful. I would like to think that there is some value in sharing my story. We will just have to see.

But, as I write, there are some parts of myself that I don’t like all that much. I suppose that I could just edit those parts out. On some days, I can easily succumb to trying to generate sympathy with the reader. It is almost a gut reaction. Most of us want to be the heroes of our stories. However, if we are being honest with ourselves, then we must admit that there are also times when we are less than heroic. Far less. It is honestly quite hard to come to terms with those sides of myself, and I just want to recoil from the page in dismay. I know that on one level or another I am supposed to be vulnerable – that’s what readers want to see in the memoir, but – yikes – it gets pretty uncomfortable.

I think that the problem with becoming vulnerable lies in the self-perception that I have gathered some wisdom along the way. I fall into the trap of writing from that vantage point. I am reluctant, on some days, to get down in the trenches with myself to recall those moments when I was flat-out unwise, foolish, or even villainous. In order to become that psychologically exposed, then I have to forget all about what I have learned via reflection. I have to get into those moments as they occurred, without the benefit of the safety found in repose.

For some reason, fiction writing feels easier to me. There is less a constant refrain about honesty running through my head when I am working on something that occurs only within my mind. But with writing the memoir, I find that I am always asking myself if I am being honest, true to that moment, as it really occurred. Some days are better than others. I have to dare myself to be unwise over and over again. That is the challenge confronting me right now, on this morning when I am staring at the blank page.