why can’t I stop, or the eternal writing of this memoir

When we all went home in 2020, I started working on a memoir.

To get started, I dug through old journals and realized I’d documented much of my teen years, in great detail. The confusion of puberty, my longings for the future, worries about God and page after page of swooning over hot guys I no longer remember.

Five years and a full-on draft and a dozen rejections later, I’m embarking on a huge edit.

It’s necessary I think but I also think I’m somehow reluctant to be done.

To leave this space.

There’s something about staying in here in this time when my sisters and I were teenagers. When we were close, when all we had was each other. We went really hard things together. Poverty, deprivation and abuse and hilarity, a father’s rages and a mother’s near-fatal illness. It’s like I think I can change the outcome somehow if I stay.

I know I can’t. That would be silly. Unrealistic.

But if I stay, if I continue to be patient, I can figure some things out, maybe.

Maybe.

good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South

Good golly it was a literary weekend in the dirty South and I feel so lucky.

I ushered a few packed sessions at the New Orleans book festival, dealt with complaints and helped carve out space for ADA attendees. Several writers from The Atlantic were on the agenda and so interest was understandably high.

After a quick break to inhale a sandwich I got some me time and heard Alexander Smalls, Nina Compton and Nini Nguyen discussing food and culture and life; to Rachel Khong speak beautifully about how writing is the most intimate relationship between her and the individual reader; to Jarvis Deberry and others recounting the first horrifying and deeply personal hours and days of reporting on Hurricane Katrina; I listened to TaraWestover muse about how being true to yourself sometimes means parting with family, and her struggles to dig deeper in her second as-yet-unpublished book; and Charles M. Blow, W. Kamau Bell and SarahLewis in conversation with Mitch Landrieu, a funny yet deeply emotional discussion of the new Jim Crow and the work still ahead. Words and ideas still matter. Let’s get to work. 

• https://www.alexandersmalls.com/ 
• https://www.neworleans.com/restaurants/chefs/nina-compton/
• https://www.chefnininguyen.com/ 
• https://www.jarvisdeberry.com/
• https://www.rachelkhong.com/
• https://www.facebook.com/CharlesMBlow/ 
• https://sarahelizabethlewis.com/
• https://tarawestover.com/

 

is it me is it you?

As a kid I remember my mom and grandma talking about an older woman, a second cousin who'd done something scandalous. She's in her 60's, Gram said. And Mom said Oh I thought she was at least 70.

And I marveled, How do they know if someone is forty or sixty or eighty? I wasn't even ten yet and any one past eighteen seemed unimaginably ancient, the years not even worth counting.

I found doodling calming and once sketched my grandmother in profile, as realistically as I could. She was so upset with the drawing, with the proportions and my tactless attempt at realism. My nose is not that big, she insisted. But it was how I saw her, a small person sitting on the floor with a sketchbook and pencils. It was how she looked to my naive eyes. Distinctive. Glamorous, with her champagne blonde perm, capri pants and sleeveless tops.

I learned to hide my drawings after that. 

I learned honesty is upsetting and will get you in trouble.

Now, I'm on the other end of that spectrum. Where I once wondered how older folks become so cantankerous and inward-focused, I now realize it's a lifelong act of resistance to stay nimble and open, to guide the mind out of comfortable ruts and into the broad, shifting path ahead.

words, music, vulnerability, love

I’ve been helping out at the Words and Music Literary festival the past few days. I have a notoriously hard time sitting still (audio only is a real challenge) but it's been so worth it.

First, several of the folks involved in Seeing Black, the photography/book/multimedia project, spoke and took questions. It was a treat to see and hear Kalamu ya Salaam, Eric Waters, and Chelsea K. Shannon. I bought the last copy of the book immediately and got it signed (to complaints from a crusty OWD I beat out who insisted the Community Book Center RIGHT NEXT DOOR didn’t have it -- PS they do). Sorry not sorry!

There was also a (woefully underattended) screening of Time, a movie about a young Shreveport couple incarcerated for a bank robbery. Fox was released after serving her time but her husband Rob was sentenced to 60+ years. Decades later, both Fox and Rob attended the screening and graciously answered our questions after in an intimate small circle. So grateful for their vulnerability and grace.

All this culture and creativity is inspiring me to dig much deeper in my own writing.

projects abound

It’s been a fertile week conversationally. Circumstances and an overflowing psyche forced me to abandon my usually rigorous schedule of writing 2 hours each morning into finding scraps of time when I can. And suddenly creativity abounds, I’m nourishing ideas and projects to keep me busy for actual literal years.

What we found in my great-grandmother’s things, 20 years afterher passing.

A deeper dive into the aftermath of the arson murders at the Up Stairs Lounge. A pal and I attended the fiftieth anniversary last year, and can’t stop talking about it.

Inappropriate therapists. I’ve had ‘em. You’ve had ‘em. I have a lot to sort through.

--the weed guy

--the boring one

--the needy one

--the BFF

And, this series of tweets. Got almost no attention (understandably, as Helene bore down and the VP debate bubbled and fizzled). But it’s on my mind. The ole inside baseball of literary fiction, success for thee (the chosen, the moneyed) but not for me.

I still have a day job, 2 volunteer jobs and a part-time commitment to dog walking for an ailing neighbor. So, more to come.