A teacher recently said that it is a really good idea to write your personal story. He went on to say that it was a great way to provide perspective on your life. To write your very own story of your time on this planet, is a grand reminder to you of where you’ve come from, and what you’ve done. You will essentially be “witnessing” your self, and your life. Your story is (or can be) a confirmation of who you have been up until now.
Some would say that the practice of writing one’s life is terribly self-indulgent. “They” would say that “we,” as a generation (and by generation, I’m including everyone alive today), are too self-involved as it is! True, there seem to be legions of unfortunates who are incapable of showing any awareness or concern for any one or any thing past the physical limits of their own bodies. On the other hand, there are almost an equal number of people who are so careful to publically show that they are utterly selfless in every thought, word and deed that they tend to pay no attention to the consequences of their own actions. Further, they seem to feel as though their very practiced selflessness excludes them from all blame or responsibility. Then, of course, there are the select few, such as myself, who are perfect in every way. [Now, if you believe that last statement, I have some lovely real estate you may wish to buy along the Gulf Coast ….or in the Nevada desert (our supposedly post 2012 western continental United States coastline) – with water views.]
There is also something rather seductive in writing about your own life. Actually, it all boils down to self judgment. If you can withhold the judgment and simply relate the facts, you’ll have it done. ‘Course, for me, withholding judgment upon myself is nigh to impossible. I can barely get through a line sometimes without thinking: “Is that too much?,” or “Who died and made you use million dollar words?,” or “How can you say he was being bitchy? Maybe he had gas and was only trying (poorly) to be polite?” Honestly, with this soundtrack running through the back of my mind, it’s a miracle I write much of anything. Every time I click the “Post” button, there’s a small leap of faith that what I’ve written even makes sense.
So back to writing one’s own life….where to start? at one’s moment of birth? Much has been written and speculated upon about the ensuing trauma caused by labor, the short trip down the birth canal and the smack on the bum immediately there following (or the paddling pool of warm water). Thanks to the media, we (who are not biological mothers) are all somewhat familiar with the physical and emotional challenges to the mother before, during and after the birth which could then impact the child’s (your) upbringing! To think of all that drama removed by the growing use of the Caesarean method. Just think of the stories lost!
Or shall one start at the point of conception? The possibilities are almost endless as to the circumstances surrounding the inevitable meeting of sperm and egg. Those circumstances would be endlessly diverting to a writer, such as myself, as there are so many opportunities for variety and creativity, whereas the act of birth generally tends to be rather straightforward. Oh, I‘m not saying birth is always without complication. It is simply that we can all conceive of the many things involved in a child’s birth. However, on the occasion of conception – before, during and after – (and a little imagination), the possibilities of who, what, where, how and when are simply endless! Not to mention – tempting.
Oy. This writing of one’s life may prove to be too challenging for me. It would probably serve me a great deal better to simply stick with the facts. And where the documentation doesn’t exist, the family members involved are dead, or the things that no one’s really ever been able to explain to me – shall just have to remain a mystery. Or I can make up. Okay, here goes….
“It was after the War [you pick which one] when from a great height, my father espied my mother flying across the fields.” [Now you fill in the rest!]
Some would say that the practice of writing one’s life is terribly self-indulgent. “They” would say that “we,” as a generation (and by generation, I’m including everyone alive today), are too self-involved as it is! True, there seem to be legions of unfortunates who are incapable of showing any awareness or concern for any one or any thing past the physical limits of their own bodies. On the other hand, there are almost an equal number of people who are so careful to publically show that they are utterly selfless in every thought, word and deed that they tend to pay no attention to the consequences of their own actions. Further, they seem to feel as though their very practiced selflessness excludes them from all blame or responsibility. Then, of course, there are the select few, such as myself, who are perfect in every way. [Now, if you believe that last statement, I have some lovely real estate you may wish to buy along the Gulf Coast ….or in the Nevada desert (our supposedly post 2012 western continental United States coastline) – with water views.]
There is also something rather seductive in writing about your own life. Actually, it all boils down to self judgment. If you can withhold the judgment and simply relate the facts, you’ll have it done. ‘Course, for me, withholding judgment upon myself is nigh to impossible. I can barely get through a line sometimes without thinking: “Is that too much?,” or “Who died and made you use million dollar words?,” or “How can you say he was being bitchy? Maybe he had gas and was only trying (poorly) to be polite?” Honestly, with this soundtrack running through the back of my mind, it’s a miracle I write much of anything. Every time I click the “Post” button, there’s a small leap of faith that what I’ve written even makes sense.
So back to writing one’s own life….where to start? at one’s moment of birth? Much has been written and speculated upon about the ensuing trauma caused by labor, the short trip down the birth canal and the smack on the bum immediately there following (or the paddling pool of warm water). Thanks to the media, we (who are not biological mothers) are all somewhat familiar with the physical and emotional challenges to the mother before, during and after the birth which could then impact the child’s (your) upbringing! To think of all that drama removed by the growing use of the Caesarean method. Just think of the stories lost!
Or shall one start at the point of conception? The possibilities are almost endless as to the circumstances surrounding the inevitable meeting of sperm and egg. Those circumstances would be endlessly diverting to a writer, such as myself, as there are so many opportunities for variety and creativity, whereas the act of birth generally tends to be rather straightforward. Oh, I‘m not saying birth is always without complication. It is simply that we can all conceive of the many things involved in a child’s birth. However, on the occasion of conception – before, during and after – (and a little imagination), the possibilities of who, what, where, how and when are simply endless! Not to mention – tempting.
Oy. This writing of one’s life may prove to be too challenging for me. It would probably serve me a great deal better to simply stick with the facts. And where the documentation doesn’t exist, the family members involved are dead, or the things that no one’s really ever been able to explain to me – shall just have to remain a mystery. Or I can make up. Okay, here goes….
“It was after the War [you pick which one] when from a great height, my father espied my mother flying across the fields.” [Now you fill in the rest!]
