Second Guessing . . .

I receive an email from my publicist, Jori. She has attached the back cover copy for my upcoming memoir. I recognize the words; I had written most of them. But whittling down my three-hundred-page story to an enticing paragraph was difficult. My effort was bland, and kind of boring. I knew Jori would make the summary better, giving it the necessary oomph to leave the reader wanting more.  

Skimming the paragraph, I spot where she has worked her magic. She’s good. Then, a single phrase halts my reading. An ancient indiscretion there in black and white, certain to grab a reader’s attention. I read the sentence again, and again, hoping the repetition will dull its impact. My gut churns and I wonder why, after decades, the regret of that decision still unsettles me. 

To ease my angst, I ask Jori to make a small edit. I feel relief as I have managed to delay a skeleton’s escape from my closet. It’s inevitable though, the easy breezy days of pre-publication are waning, no more edits. In July, my story will be set free, no longer hidden within the safety of its cover. 

This is exactly what I wanted, a published book. I poured my heart and soul into this dream. I’m happy and proud of my accomplishment. And I am also a little bit terrified. 

More fear creeps in as photographs of my book’s cover and my face appear on the publisher’s website and other social media. The marketing machine is in motion, and I visualize my memoir on nightstands and bookshelves. People will read it, and they’ll have opinions. For the hundredth time, I question my decision to write about the messiest parts of my life. Had I overshared, dredged up the past, opened myself to criticism and judgement? What was I thinking?

I wonder if I had missed a warning signal a few years ago when a writer friend asked if I worried about reopening the old wounds of former friends and lovers. Maybe that was my chance to rethink the subject of my writing. Instead, I quickly declared that those people would never read my book, they had cut me out of their lives long ago. The truth is, I did worry. 

It occurs to me that none of my exes had to write a memoir, or knock on my door, to remind me of our past. A sappy love song, a familiar scent, or random thoughts like these can stir old heartache. It’s lost its sharp edges though. The ache is different now, quieter. For better or worse, it’s a part of my story. I don’t have to hate it, or let it hurt me. I sigh and let my feelings settle, and I remember . . .

It wasn’t all bad.

I took responsibility for the hurt I caused, and I made amends. But I clung to regret for years, I imagined I had destroyed people, rendered them unable to ever find their own happiness. Geez, I had assigned myself a whole lot of power. I know now; I am not the gatekeeper of anyone’s sorrow or joy. 

No doubt, as my memoir’s release draws near, worry will tap me on the shoulder again. I’ll wish to erase the past and unbreak what I had broken. And then I’ll recall the day I decided on a dream. I wanted happiness, I wanted to learn the secrets of love and life. In my search I discovered something unexpected. I found myself, I found I wasn’t all bad, and I wrote a book about it. 

                 I hope you like it . . .

Xoc