Me? Write a Memoir?????? by Sheena Wilkinson

It’s almost midwinter and my writing has been in winter limbo. One novel (re)written and waiting for submission in the new year. The abandoned middle grade historical I planned to go back to has, after briefly sniffing the cold air, retreated back into hibernation. What is itching at me, like a chilblain, is the idea of a memoir.

 

A memoir? Me? Write about real things? Not make it up? Who the hell do I think I am, that people might be interested in reading about me? My agent didn’t seem that keen either.  I’m just a woman who was single for twenty years, sliding into a comfortable, if solitary middle age, only to fall in love at fifty with one of her oldest friends, a widowed man. Big deal. 

 

Except it was a big deal. It was life-changing. And I’d have loved to read a book like that when I was first negotiating the challenges of being the one-after-the-perfect-dead-wife; dealing with the legacy in-laws; moving into another woman’s house; walking down the aisle with an HRT patch under my wedding dress; becoming a stepmother to a sixteen-year-old when the only kids I ever wanted were the ones I wrote about. Learning – in my fifties – about compromise. Feeling like nobody ever walked this path before. 

And of course I’d have liked to read about love being the most amazing adventure and worth all the difficulties. 

 

But actually write it? That felt too scary. I’ve always been confident about writing, never doubted my right or ability to express myself in words. So why now, after eight novels, should I feel imposter syndrome about writing my own story? 

 

So I let the idea hibernate. I’d write it in the spring. Maybe.

And then last week I saw an advert for a local writing group. New writers welcome. Deep down I suspected it would be the kind of group I’d grown out of decades ago. After all, I have plenty of professional writer friends for feedback and support. And then I told myself not to be such a snob. I’ve just moved to this area; I know hardly anyone. At the very least I would meet some local folk who enjoyed writing. 

 

The town, still alien to me, sparkled with fairy lights the length of its main street. It felt exciting to be in an arts centre again, and very weird not to be the one responsible for the evening’s activities. 

I’ll be honest. It was the kind of group I’d grown out of around the time of my first publishing deal. But it was lovely to give myself up to listening and participating. The facilitator – a respected local poet whom I knew by repute – gave us a list of questions to help invent a character. It was very much the kind of exercise I’d set myself. But for once I didn’t have a character in mind. So I cheated. I answered the questions about myself. That felt strange and self-conscious – who is this I am writing about? – but being with strangers made it easier. Then we had to put the character into a story with a choice of titles. One was The Haunted House. It wasn’t hard to put my character/me into that situation – when I first spent time in the house that’s become my home, photos of my now-husband’s late wife smiled down from every wall in every room, covered every surface.  Including in the guest room where I slept. So I knew a fair bit about being haunted.

 

I was with strangers who wrote just for fun. It was easy to forget about agents and readership and book deals and just write, letting my fountain pen fly over the notebook pages. The writing was painful in a way but it flowed. And when we had to share, nobody guessed that it wasn’t a story. 

 

At home I went straight to my desk, I took out the notebook and typed it up and edited it. It’s not a full-blown memoir, but it’s a start.  A tiny hopeful shoot, and now that I’ve started I’ll keep it nurtured through the winter.

 

And see what emerges in the spring.