Finding My Voice to Tell My Story

"Damn, I wish I wrote that." I can't count how many times I've said that after hearing a song or finishing a book. Some novelists and songwriters have the ability to express something so succinctly that it resonates in my soul. I want to have that, too. Reading was my passion as a young girl. I can remember getting in trouble in 6th grade for having a novel tucked into my math book because it was more interesting than fractions, and there were many weekends that I stayed in my pajamas reading two Nancy Drew mysteries per day. I would ride the bus to the public library after school and stay there until my mom picked me up on her way home from work. To this day, there is an unread novel on my bedside table, waiting for me to finish the one in my hand. Much of my summer break is devoted to catching up on the mountain of books that I did not have time to read during the school year and I have fallen in love with more than one fictional character. Now I find myself on the other side, thinking it would be awesome to have the power to captivate someone's attention to the point they block out their own reality for a while.

No, I am not planning on writing a book. I wouldn't know where to begin. Twenty years ago I had a roommate whose father owned a construction company. One afternoon he was talking to us about being successful in business as well personal ventures and he said, "Girls, you have got to have a story." Being from South Carolina, he pronounced it stow-ry, which is why it has stuck in my brain for so long. He meant that we needed to be able to relate to people in such a way that we weren't coming across as salesmen so much as kindred spirits. Now, Don was a salesman and I am sure his story changed as needed on the sales floor, but his message was a good one. We all have a story to tell and people who want to hear it.

The author Frank McCourt didn't start to write his first memoir, Angela's Ashes, until he was sixty-four years old. He explained, "I thought everything you wrote had to be about England; nobody ever told me you could write about growing up in Ireland." That is exactly how I feel! I have read so many wonderful books in my lifetime and thought that those authors must be gifted with great imaginations and extraordinary real-life experiences. They have stories! But I have come to realize that they started out just like me. Writing to exercise their minds, conquer demons, capture memories and avoid housework. The difference is they have found their voice, practiced daily, written millions of words and convinced someone to publish their work. I am practicing daily (almost) but am still trying to find my voice...and I think I am getting close.

My college dorm was full of music majors and most of them would practice their instruments or vocals in the music building, but there was one girl on my hall who loved the acoustics of our bathroom. I can still hear her singing scales in the shower. One afternoon she said, "Punch me. Go on. Right in the gut!" I refused, asking why in the world would I want to do that. She said that one of her voice coaches had told her that the sound you make when punched in the gut is your true voice. Umph. Oopf. Not exactly the kind of sounds I want to make on stage at the opera, but we are talking about music majors. They could be as far out there as we art majors could. But I have pondered that coach's concept many times over the years and I think I finally understand it.

I have been punched in the gut several times over the last 40-something years. Not just physically (and I would punch him back now) but emotionally. I have survived an abusive ex-lover, an emotionally unavailable father, a major medical crisis and a couple of broken hearts. When I process these things enough to write about them what comes out is incredibly frank and often surprises me. I can be brutally honest and unapologetic for the things I say but then I can be incredibly forgiving of those who have hurt me most. I am not used to hearing my voice, and frankly I think it is confused. Sometimes it sounds like Dorothy Parker and sometimes it is Glenda the Good Witch. But I can use this voice to tell my story when I finally figure out what it is, because, like Frank McCourt discovered, we can write about the things we know.

I know what the inside of Circle Drive smells like in the summer. I know how it felt to see my mother on fire when she burned up our kitchen. I know the taste of moonshine chugged out of a jelly jar. I know the sound of my blood pounding in my ears when my heart broke the first time. I know the cold softness of my grandpa's hand when I kissed him goodbye.

I have read others' stories all my life and now that I am discovering my own I find that I am buying less of theirs. When I checked out of the bookstore this morning I was amused to realize that rather than plopping down in the New Fiction aisle to peruse the latest mysteries, I had settled atop a step-stool in the Writing and Research section. I look forward to the day when I can read a final draft here and say, "Damn, I'm glad I wrote that!"