Living Write
Living Write
Melissa Giberson
The pandemic was in its early stages; I was furloughed from work. With my excess time, I read books, watched Netflix, cleaned, caught up on scrapbooking, and revisited my old writing – stashed in a backpack in a closet and in electronic files in the deep recesses of my computer. In the electronic and paper rubble was a compilation of stories and musings from early in my journey of having a late-in-life sexual awakening. A friend of mine was about to publish her book and I sent an email to her publisher, a woman who I knew nothing about.
I wrote: Recently blew the dust off “my story” that I started writing eight years ago. I stopped writing when I had to survive the day to day of becoming a single mom. I’d like someone to tell me if its better off living in the bowels of my computer to occasionally remind myself of the journey I’ve been on, or is there something worth sharing with the world.
She responded: Well—I’m interested in the story, yes. 🙂
And so began the process of writing my book.
In theory, I’m an organized, take-your-time kind of person. My brain operates more like a multi-lane highway, however, thoughts ever-present, maneuvering quickly around other thoughts, like they’re late for a job interview.
Purging brings me joy – I’ll tackle cleaning a closet with the same vigor as the last-game of a season event. I’ll eject everything from the space under attack, pile it in an open area and pick through it like an audition, deciding what goes, and what makes it to the next level of try-outs. In the end, the surviving items get returned to the closet, until the next time my cleaning trigger-finger starts twitching again.
I write the way I purge. Pouring everything onto the page – words, thoughts, metaphors, and analogies – all spilled out like Halloween candy from a pillowcase, needing to be plucked through. As time passes, I repeatedly revisit the spillage with a finer tooth comb, molding my words into meaningful sentences and scenes, deleting the unnecessary, economizing the word count. But in the end, I’m really processing my own thoughts.
I watch each treasured story start out like a full-size chocolate bar. Over time, some of those full-sized bars get reduced to bite size treats while others get tossed out completely. These snack-size stories are what now comprise my book, Late Bloomer: Finding My Authentic Self At Midlife (She Writes Press), and the meaning I’ve come to make of them. As if returning to the closet and discovering a hidden shoebox of memories, I dig deeper, excavating the old, perhaps forgotten experiences and add another layer to a scene. Writing is how I make sense of those thoughts, the scattered feelings, and memories, trying to figure out what they all mean, how I’m impacted by them.
I dedicated myself to learning the craft of writing as I was writing my book. I attended workshops – online and in person. I worked with a developmental editor. I read books about writing. My actual writing is an ongoing process as my brain is always in motion. I will designate free time for writing when I can but do not have a set schedule and frequently binge write on weekends.
Thoughts often wake me during the night, and I send emails to myself at all hours. I have taken sabbaticals and immersed myself entirely in writing for days or weeks at a time. I find inspiration everywhere – when I’m driving, spending time in nature, or sitting quietly playing traffic cop to the racing thoughts in my head. I’m never without a pen and paper or my phone to preserve whatever thought comes to mind that might contribute to my writing. In between writing, I read books by authors who’ve come before me – to learn from them, to stand in awe of them, to be inspired by them. I’ve welcomed a community of writers into my world and I’m better off for knowing them or knowing of them, for hearing their stories.
My book is a pay-it-forward book; one I hope resonates with a reader who needs to hear my story as they travel along their own journey. My stories live inside of me, I am compelled to write them, as though they are living things and I am simply the medium through which they emerge. Writing, like music and nature, soothes me so putting words on paper is easy. The work comes with shaping those words into something meaningful for myself, for someone else. The challenge is being patient and remembering that I continually revisit my words; so, I need to resist my twitchy finger when it comes to sending out my work. The best thing I do when I’ve written something, is to wait. When I reread a piece of writing the next day or the next week, I always find more to trim, mold, and shape and I’m grateful I didn’t hit send. My magic word when it comes to writing is – patience.
Our stories serve a purpose. I tell my stories to understand them better, to understand me better. I write to understand the world within me and the one around me. I share my writing in hopes it resonates with someone else trying to sort through their own scramble of thoughts and feelings. In this way, we are connected, ever-growing, cruising down our individual lanes at our own pace.
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Melissa is a native New Yorker who identifies as a late bloomer, a highly sensitive introvert, and proud mama bear to two children. An occupational therapist and writer, she has published articles in Kveller, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and Highly Sensitive Refuge. She received an Honorable Mention in the Memoirs/Personal Essays category of the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition and her essay, “Art is the Antidote,” appears in the anthology, Art In The Time of Unbearable Crisis (June, 2022). Melissa’s debut book, Late Bloomer: Finding My Authentic Self At Midlife (She Writes Press) comes out August, 2023. Melissa is living her authentic life with her partner and their two cats; together, they split their time between New Jersey and Provincetown, Massachusetts.
IG: Melissagiberson031
LATE BLOOMER: Finding My Authentic Self at Midlife
Late Bloomer, Melissa Giberson
Melissa Giberson is a middle-aged suburban wife and mother of two kids, solidly planted in the life she’s always wanted. Yet she longs for something more—something she can’t quite put her finger on until, one day at the Y, she finds herself mesmerized by the sight of a naked woman and asks herself for the first time: Am I gay?
PREORDER HERE
Category: On Writing
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