Origins
“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery. ”
Lately I’ve been thinking about the origin stories of writers, how varied and mysterious they are, how there’s no single, correct path. Some stumble upon writing later in life, as if by accident, while others have been winning poetry contests since the third grade.
I didn’t grow up thinking I could write very well. I kept a journal but struggled to express myself verbally in my own family. The thoughts and words were inside of me but I couldn’t quite seem to get them out. People often told me I was shy and a slow talker. I hated English in high school and would have rather completed hundreds of algebra equations than write a formal essay or research paper. But, despite all of this, I loved to read, and within the pages of my favorite books, language and self-expression felt organic, enlivening, and accessible.
I first remember getting lost in books when I was in middle school. My family and I lived overseas at the time, and in the seventh grade, while lying on a narrow cot in a tiny cabin during an overnight ferry ride from England to The Netherlands, I fell down the whimsical, nonsensical rabbit hole of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. In eighth grade, during the cold, dark days of Christmas break, I discovered the gothic, romantic pages of Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. In high school and college, I savored the sensual complexities of Out of Africa by Isaac Denison, Family Happiness by Leo Tolstoy, East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and Beach Music by Pat Conroy. But amid these memoirs, novels, and short stories, I never considered myself a good reader and never once imagined that I could write a book.
I’m not sure what changed, but one night, when I was in my twenties, the inclination struck me for the first time. Chris and I were newlyweds and were taking a trip to Santa Barbara to visit his best friends from college. We were both active duty Air Force––he was about to start his Ophthalmology residency and I was working nightshift on a busy med/surg/trauma floor at a military hospital in San Antonio. We were grateful to temporarily exchange the hot, flat, concrete of Texas for the supple beauty of California, the Santa Ynez mountains behind us, the sapphire Pacific before us. It was my second time visiting the majestic ocean where my husband had grown up surfing and sailing and swimming, and just like the first time, its energy rustled something inside of me. The coastal air, dense with mist and marine fog, made me feel I could transform into a truer version of myself, no matter how foolish or surprising.
The Santa Ynez mountains at sunset.
To be honest, I was very unhappy back then. When I look back at photos of myself during that time, I can see on my face the inner turmoil I did not yet have language to express. I remember sitting with Chris at the top of this mountain ridge, weighed down by a darkness I couldn’t access or describe. I had the sense that some life-force buried deep inside of me was trying to surface, but all I knew to do was keep pushing it down. To keep surviving.
On the last night of the trip, Chris and I sat on our hotel balcony in white plastic chairs and terrycloth robes, sipping wine and smoking clove cigarettes, the ocean two hundreds yards before us, its dark surface lit by the moon, the gentle rumble of waves filling the evening with music. I had my old copy of Jane Eyre on my lap and was rereading paragraphs between our intermittent conversation. I felt moved all over again by the protagonist’s quiet intensity, her penchant for loneliness and brooding, her subtle observations and curiosities. Perhaps it was a blend of the wine and the cigarettes and the cleansing salt air, but I looked up from the page and stated, matter-of-factly, “I want to write a book someday.” I remember thinking how preposterous the words sounded as they floated through the air like smoke.
Over eighteen years have passed since that moment––a moment I’d mostly forgotten about until this week. The words I spoke that night seemed random and outrageous, especially for someone who struggled with writing and thought she was terrible at it. But I wonder how many writers, artists, or people of any vocation have an origin story like this––a random yet profound encounter with an inexplicable desire, which would later manifest if they let it.
Writing Prompt
What is your origin story? Is there a specific moment you can pinpoint when a desire suddenly struck and shifted something in your life? Which books made you want to write, or made you believe that you could? Where are you in the process of following this passion?
Recommended Reading & Links
Speaking of origin stories, I’m nearly finished reading Townie by Andre Dubus III, a coming-of-age, father-son story that explores themes of violence and boyhood. It’s about the ways we rearrange ourselves in order to survive, how these survival skills later prove inhibitive, and how we must let these parts of us die in order to live and love fully. For me, this memoir is the gospel, the core story of humanity, and Dubus’s use of unmatched sensory details and metaphors make me ache in recognition. There’s this sublime scene in the book when Dubus first discovers writing. Even though his dad was an acclaimed writer, he never thought that’s something he could do until one night, brimming with pent-up emotion, he makes a cup of tea and intuitively channels his energy onto the page rather than the barbells and boxing gloves at the gym. It’s the inception of a practice that will forever change his life and the way he inhabits it.
Also, I listened to the latest Let’s Talk Memoir episode earlier this week and it made me cry at multiple moments, which caught me off-guard because no podcast has ever moved me to tears. The episode totally overlaps with the themes of Townie and I love when these convergences happen! The lovely memoirist and podcast host Ronit Plank interviewed Reed Harkness, a Seattle-based filmmaker who recently released an award-winning documentary called Sam Now, which covers twenty-five years of his family’s story and his search for a missing mother. He talks about sensitivity, moving into discomfort in service of truth-telling, intergenerational trauma, and how the process of making this film changed him and his family forever. His vulnerability wrecked me in the best possible way and helped me feel less alone in my own memoir process. You can listen here: “Intergenerational Trauma & Truth-Telling in Sam Now featuring Reed Harkness.”
Here’s one more fun convergence! I serendipitously looped back to a favorite origin-themed essay after a friend recently reminded me of the prolific Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami. This Murakami essay, “The Running Novelist,” was published in The New Yorker fifteen years ago and describes the obscure, magical moment at a baseball game when he first realized he wanted to write a novel. It’s a great read about his inception as a writer and marathon runner. You can find it online here.
Updates & Pubs
It’s been almost a year since I started this website and newsletter! I admit, I’ve felt a bit like Goldilocks, sampling different platforms like bowls of porridge. One was too cold (Mailchimp), one was too hot (Substack), and now, hopefully, I’ve found the one that’s just right––my own website’s platform (Squarespace,) which I just realized has email newsletter capabilities, ha! So, sorry to be changing things up, but I think I finally found the right temperature for me. My goal is to still share monthlyish, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on what’s going on. I also have a few publications releasing in the next days/weeks and I’ll share them as soon as I can!
Upcoming Classes
This summer I’m teaching another term of The Memoir Studio at The Muse Writers Center. We have one spot left! If someone you know has previous writing/workshop experience, is currently drafting/revising a full-length memoir manuscript, and is looking for support and feedback during the process, please check it out! Scholarships are available. Class meets online every other Monday from 6-9:30PM EST starting June 12 and ending Aug 7. Here’s the course description and link to register, or you can email me to register.
Thanks again for reading and supporting my work. Feel free to share with a friend if you think it would resonate. I hope you all have a safe and restful Memorial Day weekend. TGIF!
All Best,
Libby