What, if I don't find a way to say it, will kill me?
The unsaid? I think my mother's just about said it all. At a reading we did together in the city when I was 17, her piece began: "All I did was open my legs twice and this is what I got?" There have been several conversations I wish required more imagination. But now it's my turn. I have a voice, a story, a pen and a website and I'm navigating the tricky terrain--vast, cavernous--through what can be said in a public forum and what's between me and Jesus (not that me and Jesus spend THAT much time talking but I did hear he has a thing for Jewish girls). Everyone in my life gives me stories but can they stomach the same stories read back to them? Can I? When I asked my husband how he felt about appearing regularly in a public forum he said, "I think I gave you that permission in my wedding vows." But did he really? Can he begin to predict what I might feel more comfortable writing than saying? How much is too much? If I overuse the F-word and the G-D word and write about my heathen life as it really is can I ever face my sweet and dearly beloved mother-in-law again? I have always heard and truly believe from the writers I love that the most important thing to do first is the writing itself. Everything that follows is under the jurisdiction of the second draft, the editor, the logic brain. But what if the logic brain is scared to death? What if the logic brain is broken? What if all I've got is what just comes out? How much is too much, and what, if I don't find a way to say it, will kill me?