Thank you, Barbara Abercrombie. This post–Writing About Mom, along with others (I’m not linking them–you go browse. Seriously. You’ll get lost and be glad you did)–anyway, the post about moms gave me insight into a problem that’s dogged me since I began writing my memoir.
I’m writing about my parents, and a nasty monkey’s gnawing at my ear and chatter-whispering about all the things my kids could say about me so maybe I should shut up and leave well enough alone. Karma, y’know. And he is particularly snide and snotty about how my story will probably kill my remaining family members via shock and dismay: heart attack/stroke/seizures.
He’s a mean monkey who doesn’t care that I haven’t repeated all of my mother’s mistakes, nor does he care that I’m not writing vindictively; all he cares about is that I’ve got my flashlight out and I’m digging through rubble and stirring up dust and mildew. Such a mess. (Since when do monkeys care about messes, anyway?)
I was drawn without a mouth—no, that’s not true. I had one till I was six years old, or so. It just got erased. But now I have my doodle markers out….