Tonight I hosted a writing workshop. It was geared for those interested in learning the tools to develop their memoir.
What a powerful one-hour session it was!
Our guest talked about her experiences with writing a memoir, in addition to the inspiration behind the subject matter.
It got me thinking about my life.
I've thought about those intimate pieces of my story.
But, I'm not ready to release them.
Why? Although some of the memories happened so long ago, the wounds are still fresh.
The hurt, very present.
I have been yearning to write about some of my experiences from elementary school, and reliving some of the more tender and courageous moments of that lived experience. Ranging from the violent death of a schoolmate, to a teacher that instilled my passion for reading, and my true rights of passage when I first learned my voice mattered.
These are pieces of one portion of my life, but still, my story.
How would I tell it? What names would be changed? Who would be hurt in the process?
What I do know is that it is worthy to be told.
But it will need to be in my own time.
And each day, I get a bit closer to beginning.
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