From Opera Singer to Memoir Author – an Eleven Year Odyssey

“Really? You wrote a book?”

I can see the incredulity when people learn what I’ve done, particularly from those who know me as a singer, music teacher, synagogue cantor, mother. Sometimes I also get the wistful, faraway look, and this:  “I want to write a book someday.”

I smile and murmur encouraging words. But I never say it wasn’t hard. It was.

The idea formed because I had a story. An intense, almost unbelievable story – the you-can’t-make-this-s**t-up story. Three years earlier, my husband David had survived a plane crash but he was left with a severe, incapacitating brain injury. Our marriage had been in trouble at the time of the accident, and I had to come to terms with the realization that I was unwilling to assume the role expected of me – the role of caregiver.

Throw in some infidelity, stalking, an eating disorder, vandalism, dramatic medical and courtroom scenes.  (Intrigued? You’ll need to read Crash: How I Became a Reluctant Caregiver, published by She Writes Press in April 2021.)

Ok, so I had a story. What next? I’d always been a pretty decent writer; next to music, English was my favorite subject. Spelling? Essays? Piece of cake. From the Little House books to Gone With the Wind, from Barbara Kingsolver to Isabel Allende, I’ve been an avid reader since childhood.  But school was a long time ago. I had zero real training in creative writing, let alone the craft of memoir. I was trudging through lawsuits, single parenting two traumatized children, financial challenges. The task ahead felt insurmountable. I was standing at the bottom of a sheer cliff face, looking up, with no crampons in sight, and no skills to make the climb.

I channeled my rabbi, (also my former boss) who used a Hebrew phrase to counsel the overwhelmed 12-year old kids about to start their Bar or Bat Mitzvah training. “Shlav b’shlav. One step at a time.” 

First step? Enroll in a writing class (duh).  But which one? I reached out to a reporter for the local Jewish newspaper who’d done a story on me and my kids after the crash.  She referred me to Laura Davis, in Santa Cruz. A bit of a schlep but not too bad. Laura was offering a weekend for beginners at the Land of Medicine Buddha – a Zen retreat center in beautiful Aptos (with real saffron-robed monks!)  Could be worse. Why not start there? 

The weekend was magical. I made friends I still have today. We learned about the structure of a narrative – musing, scene and summary. We wrote six-word memoirs, laughing mightily at this one from a woman whose husband had left her for the neighbor: “Husband fell into the neighbor’s vagina.” We ate delicious vegetarian food, practiced guided meditations, strolled through redwood and eucalyptus tree studded paths in the early November chill. 

We were given prompts: 

• I remember….
• I don’t remember…
• My home town…
• If I don’t answer the phone….
• If I were speaking to my 20-year-old self, I would tell her….

I enrolled in Laura’s monthly memoir class. Childcare was a pain to arrange, but I was in it for the long haul and knew I needed the feedback, the discipline and structure of a class. We read and discussed beautifully crafted memoirs:  Wild by Cheryl Strayed, The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls, Farm City by Novella Carpenter, A short story collection, The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.

I had no idea where to begin, so I concentrated instead on scenes – which, perhaps because of my theatrical training, were easier to write. I learned how to write what I couldn’t remember – focusing on the intent, the takeaway from the moment or encounter (who can remember exactly what was said six years earlier?)  Shlav b’shlav, one scene at a time, became the mantra of my writing process. I made a list of the moments that were most vivid in my memory including:

• When I told David’s family I wouldn’t be taking him home
• When I had to surrender David’s driver’s license to the DMV because he would never drive again
• When my friends performed an intervention, confronting me about my eating disorder
• When I threw a childhood friend of David’s out of my house because she accused me of being David’s jailor

As a single mom, writing wasn’t easily fit into my insane schedule. I’d grab twenty or thirty minutes at a time, tapping out a page or two at Starbucks while my son Josh was at his breakdancing class. Classes and retreats with Laura and other gifted teachers became my go-to for structure, productivity, feedback and connection with other writers. 

Then, I stopped. Cold. I’d attended a week-long retreat in New York where visiting professionals from the publishing industry essentially told us that getting published is hard and getting harder. I came home completely discouraged. I didn’t write another word for two years. 

But my story kept pestering me, like a clingy toddler. It needed to be told. 

I was still overwhelmed but forced myself to look beyond the fear. To sit my butt in the chair and write. I had to finish the manuscript even if no one wanted to publish it. I hired an editor, and went to work. 

Eleven years ago, I had a story. I’ll soon be a published author. 

Shlav b’shlav. 

RACHEL MICHELBERG grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and still enjoys living there with her husband, Richard, and their two dogs, Nala and Beenie. She earned her Bachelor of Music degree in vocal performance from San Jose State University and has performed leading roles in musicals and opera from Carmen to My Fair Lady as well as the part of the Mother Abbess (three times!) in The Sound of Music. When Rachel isn’t working with one of her twenty voice and piano students, she loves gardening, hiking, and making her own bone broth. CRASH: How I Became a Reluctant Caregiver is her first book. Find her online at rachelmichelbergauthor.com

Crash: How I Became a Reluctant Caregiver

Rachel likes to think of herself as a nice Jewish girl, dedicated to doing what’s honorable, just as her parents raised her to do. But when her husband, David, survives a plane crash and is left with severe brain damage, she faces a choice: will she dedicate her life to caring for a man she no longer loves, or walk away?

Their marriage had been rocky at the time of the accident, and though she wants to do the right thing, Rachel doesn’t know how she is supposed to care for two kids in addition to a now irrational, incontinent, and seizure-prone grown man.

And how will she manage to see her lover? But then again, what kind of selfish monster would refuse to care for her disabled husband, no matter how unhappy her marriage had been? Rachel wants to believe that she can dedicate her life to David’s needs, but knows in her heart it is impossible. Crash tackles a pervasive dilemma in our culture: the moral conflicts individuals face when caregiving for a disabled or cognitively impaired family member.

 

 

 

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