Shades of Brave In Memoir

If you write memoir or personal essay you’ve no doubt heard this: You’re so brave.

As if memoir is about confessing to having had certain feelings or experiences.

When I first began publishing personal essays, I understood the comment but was perplexed by it because it seemed so far from my intentions. I didn’t feel brave. And I didn’t write from a place of courage. At least not the kind of courage people seemed to mean.

Rather, I write to understand my motives, the way I relate to others, my personal history, and my experience in the world. In essay and memoir I seek to create art from this understanding. I write from my specific experience as a way to connect with others rather than to separate myself as unique. One of the joys of writing is creating art that resonates with readers because it illuminates our shared humanity.

Sometimes I suspect when people say, “brave” they really mean they are a little embarrassed for me. Or perhaps even scared for me because I’ve made myself vulnerable to judgment by putting “it” out there. Whatever “it” is — alcoholism, debt, divorce, sexual desire, eating disorder, children with lice, insecurity about my appearance, humble beginnings, or an imperfect family.

The subtext I hear is: I could never or would never expose myself like that. Or, aren’t you worried about what other people will think?

It may surprise some readers that sharing my source material takes the least of my courage. I spent so many years of my childhood and young adulthood trying to perfect a façade of attractiveness, intelligence, and financial security. As I matured, I discovered how many of my fears I actually share with the rest of the world.

Freedom from the “looking-good disease” has been my salvation and route to a happier and more serene life. This liberating awareness happened so long ago that now I forget about the initial courage it may have taken to come out of hiding.

In writing and publishing my memoir I have needed a different kind of courage. My goal is to be brave enough not to sugarcoat my role in my experiences. My hope is to be as hard on myself as anyone else in the story — harder even. The second kind of courage I have needed is what any writer needs: the audacity to believe my story and the creative way in which I’ve told it is worthy of readers.

Before I published my memoir, I’m the One Who Got Away, I had published dozens of personal essays. I was used to being exposed and thought I was inured to it.  But during my book tour, I have become aware of a little internal trick I do when faced with people who judge not only the subject matter of my book but my daring to publish it.

I see the judgment in their eyes across the book-signing table. The college acquaintance who says she pities my childhood. The friend’s husband who says he can’t imagine airing his family’s dirty laundry. The neighbor who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t care what people thought.

“Oh, yes you do,” she said.

But she had misunderstood me. I care deeply if people appreciate my book. I care more than almost anything if people think the writing is good. I don’t care that I have revealed who I was and how I became the woman I am. Telling my story doesn’t make me feel weak; it makes me feel strong.

So here’s what I find myself doing when I meet those folks who seem embarrassed on my behalf: I smile politely and remember that my book is not for everyone. I am grateful that it is for a lot of people if reviews and sales are any measure. I glide over the surface of these comments like a water skier crossing the wake and then I summon the courage not to worry about what they think.

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