Literary: Woman on the Couch (Part 2)

Relocation Fund

(I wrote this introduction to my next memoir last August. Since then, I have been in limbo as I look for a permanent home on the Peninsula in Washington State).

As I sit in another in-between place, I contemplate what home means to me. I have lived in houses and apartments for both long and short-term. But my experiences in Bellingham, Washington left me poised on an invisible edge. No place I lived ever felt like home even if this touted city drew me in with her allure. The theme I encountered was, “There’s no room at the inn.”

Bellingham courted me for four years while I lived in Mount Vernon, Washington—another city that drew me in with dreams of the mighty Skagit River. And this caused me to venture north from Seattle—a city that I thought I would live forever, despite my love-hate relationship with the Emerald City.

Like many other people living as middle class or below middle class, I have experienced the tight squeeze from the top. More than ever, I found myself lost in an old patriarchal dream rooted in the divide and conquer mentality as opposed to my spiritual belief in Unity Consciousness. I witnessed a false economy ebb and flow—shrink and expand like an illusion or a trick of mirrors in a movie by the Spanish director Luis Buñuel. And I’m one to wonder about the man behind the curtain twirling the knobs creating these illusions that prevent me from ever finding a home.

So, now, through the kindness of a woman herbalist who inherited her mother’s properties, I type this page in a cabin on top of a hill in a place called Sudden Valley. Behind me ravens croak their morning calls to the skies and 200 foot pine and cedar. It’s not perfect. And it’s just temporary—a phrase my mother drilled into my head and the reason why I’m unable to plant my roots into the fertile ground. Beliefs keep me stuck or living in between homes in an in between land where I wander virtually friendless, unemployed, and always on the verge of hoping. But there’s a saying that you can’t live on hope and I find this to be true. Everything has gone up in price from food to rent which has increased 100% in some cases in this touted city. Good old hope does not pay the rent any longer. This world vomits dreamer types.

It seems that everyone wants to live in this northwest corner of the United States with its views of the Salish Sea, Mount Baker (a volcano about to blow), and the lakes that sparkle like gems in a queen’s tiara. Magazine journalists wax about this “livable” city. And this causes young families, retirees, and Californians (escaping the heat and traffic of their state, but not their hedonistic lifestyles), to relocate to Bellingham and Whatcom County.

I recently saw a new trend that revolves around Millennials leaving cities for suburban areas or small towns. This means that they too will flock to cities and towns like Bellingham—free of skyscrapers (for now) and of glitzy departments stores, large software companies, and corporate America. But where does that leave artists such as me who have barely escaped the encroachment of gentrification?

I still recall Pioneer Square and Bell Town in Seattle when they were artists’ havens. Gentrification has far-reaching effects even destroying the fabric of the cuter small towns such as La Conner, Coupeville, Port Townsend, and Edison in Washington State. The recipe includes artists moving to these places, setting up shop, and giving a quirky charm to a place. Wealthy tourists stop by on a visit, enjoy the café life and spending time in small galleries, and then they decide to relocate to the artist’s colonies—thus driving up the price of real estate and then opening the door to private investors who develop property thus transforming a once livable community into a rich man’s playground.

When I moved to Seattle in the mid-1980s, the city was still considered backwater. Sure, the city had its place in history books as it was a famous stomping ground for gold diggers and early industrialists. Boeing set up shop around Seattle. Jazz flourished in Seattle. And many artists and offbeat people found their home in the magical place surrounded by water and mountains.

I still recall the pre-grunge days when Microsoft was just getting its foothold in the world of transnational corporations. Starbucks had only two locations (Pike’s Place Market and the University District). Had I visited a psychic who told me that Seattle would grow into a giant and that its homegrown corporations would compete for world domination, and that developers would tear down historic homes in favor of glitzy condos, I would have laughed. Seattle’s tentacles are far-reaching and devilishly destructive.

Yet, by 1989, rent was increasing forty dollars every three months. Since I was an underground musician and writer, I didn’t make enough money to cover the rent increases. I moved perhaps ten times during the twenty-one years I called Seattle my home. I thought by fleeing to Mount Vernon in 2007 where I worked briefly as an art and lifestyle journalist, I would escape gentrification. Then the economic crash of 2008 nearly destroyed me.

This is when Bellingham began her flirtation with me. She appeared in glossy national magazines. She appeared in a documentary film. She appeared in my fourth novel, Love Quadrangle which featured a Quebecois architect, a writer fleeing California, an author with a dark side, and a French travel photographer. However, while my characters felt at home in the City of Subdued Excitement, I found myself living in between homes four times and I only lived in Bellingham for six years. Forget the courtship and then marriage to this city. I’m asking for a divorce!

I lived in attics, in basements, in Air B & B’s, hotels, and some scummy places that barely fit the description of homes. I experienced Argentine ants crawling into my laptop and across my hands as I kept up with my blogs. I experienced recluse spiders hanging out near my bed. And I learned firsthand about people with Cluster B personalities since I actually shared homes with them.

In addition, I experienced rejection from employers, and people I tried to befriend (again, narcissists make for bad company). While I felt at home in natural settings and I fell in love with the numerous dogs around the city (except for the ones that tried to attack me), I found it hard to make any real human connections.

It’s true that people in this region act in a passive-aggressive way. They say things like, “If you ever find yourself in trouble, call me,” and then when you follow up, they hem and haw, doing a bunch of fancy footwork to get themselves out of a tight squeeze. And if anyone should end up homeless they have a choice of hanging out with narcissists with hidden agendas or landing on the street. Bellingham has no safety net for people not already living on the streets or in a car, or in a tent. And even then, who wants their name to languish on a waiting list while they’re living in a car?

So, as I write these pages, I live in between homes again. I have no internet and plenty of time on my hands to pursue my creative interests. My eyes itch from mold growing on damp walls of this cabin, but I tell myself, it’s still better than living in a shelter. My heart has already left Bellingham as divorces tend to do that to hearts. But I have yet to find a new home in Port Townsend, knowing that I’m still stuck in a temporary holding pattern. Even though I know that home is in the heart and not near a body of water or on a piece of land.

I’ve learned along the way, on this thorny path. The Creator pulled rugs from underneath my feet and took my crutches (especially in regard to new age beliefs) from beneath me too. I am hobbling into the unknown and taking a leap of faith out of darkness (ignorance) into the light. This is not a communal experience but something each of us does alone. No one can take a leap of faith for me just as I would not have my mother chew my food for me. I am not a bird even if I stand on the edge of a nest ready to take my first flight.

While I will receive help moving to a new town and I will receive help finding a new home to land, once I land, I’m on my own. And that’s the way I want it because I get to decide what I’ll do next.

All Rights Reserved Patricia Herlevi copyright 2017

If you read this far and you would like to help me get into a permanent home, please make a donation to my Relocation Fund.

THANKS.

 

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Essay for Woman Sleeping in an Attic

Procrastination is not my friend. Yet, the only work I have done on my second memoir that reflects on living in between homes (several times), comes out as essays. So, why not just write a series of blog essays and then transform them into a book later? 

And lately, memories of the first time I left Bellingham during the summer of 1986 mingles with the second time I left Bellingham three weeks ago. The first time, I left I felt hopeful as I packed up my Datsun and headed to Seattle to break into the music business. The second time, I loaded up a U-Haul truck and I only felt dread as I hauled my meager belongings to a storage unit just outside of Port Townsend. And then settled into my family’s home (not in Port Townsend).

When I was 22-years-old, I considered myself hopeful but still one of the walking wounded latch-key kids trying to make sense of my life. I had my entire life to map out and I mapped it out. I had plans for every area of my life and I had a schedule to keep. When I was in my twenties, I paid no attention to people over 30 and I certainly never expected to reach my menopause years or my fifties.

Like every young adult pursuing a career in the arts, I expected to live in a bohemian-style for several years until I got my big break. Only the bohemian lifestyle continued without the big break and the older I got I just seemed like a loser. I did not achieve what I expected to achieve. I did not marry or live in a formidable home. In fact, many times I found myself without a home at all.

I didn’t do everything right but I also didn’t do anything truly wrong. I made some bad choices, but I never took up the worst kind of habits. And yet, who was I to think that I wasn’t as wounded or dysfunctional as the alcoholics and addicts living down the hall from me in Seattle’s apartment buildings? The good news for the addict is that they get help a lot earlier as their addictions humbled them. While I stayed longer in denial and even acted smugly towards addicts or people suffering from mental illnesses.

And as many addicts I knew got their lives together and experienced redemption, my life kept spiraling downward despite the number of spiritual workshops I took or self-help books I absorbed into my subconscious mind. I experienced many ah-hah moments but I never experienced salvation. I had many people warn me about my defences but my ego shut them out. I thought despite the outward signs of my life crumbling into oblivion that I had it together or I would at least fake it until I made it.

So, as our U-Haul truck made its way to a storage unit in the middle of a cow pasture, I wondered with despair how I ended up in this transition. And my eyes opened wider when I met women from my childhood also going through transition. And then on FaceBook, a few of my friends also find themselves relocating to other parts of the country, getting divorced, or going through a complete overhaul of their lives.

And the Marvin Gaye’s words, “What’s Going On” swim in my thoughts as do water moccasins swim through the flood waters in the southern United States. And the land shifts in Mexico and enormous winds and rain plummel the Caribbean islands. Indeed, I ask why are their so many displaced people? And I think for many, this represents a humbling experience that breaks open our hearts.

In one of my channel sessions, my guides told me that at this time the weak are made strong and the strong are made weak. We are here to learn from each other. Those who suffered before us learned survival skills and now share those with us. We will emerge from coping to thriving. And my wish for everyone is to survive the transition that will lead us to the promised land.

 

Woman Sleeping on the Couch–Chapter One (Memoir from 2014)

CHAPTER ONE

A Call to Action

Every heroine experiences that moment where she closes one door and waits for another to open to an adventure. When I gave up my Sehome apartment for the unknown, I knew that significant life challenges awaited me, but at the same time the Universe responded with signposts while giving me courage to face uncertainty. I ventured boldly where I had never gone before, kind of like a Star Trek character, but on an emotional level.

Towards the end of August 2014, after I gave notice to move out of a secure apartment, I volunteered to work at the children’s art station with the Community Food Coop’s annual party in the park. Oddly, one of the activities involved children building homes out of cardboard boxes. While the children and their adult helpers built fabulous architecture out of cardboard, mainly tiny houses and forts, I heard a nagging voice in my head say, “Hmmm, isn’t that symbolic? Watch and learn because you might just end up living in a cardboard box.”

In fact, my repressed fear at that time caused me to dream about walking the streets of Bellingham or even an unknown city as a homeless person. I feared for my safety, but I also feared humiliation of running into people I knew as I dragged around blankets in garbage bags or pushed a grocery cart with my meager belongings through the alleyways.

I recall a time in Seattle, when I was virtually tossed out on the street, hopping from couch to couch and sleeping on floors. One time, when a boyfriend kicked me out of his apartment so that he could be with his new girlfriend, a purple-haired “goddess,” I slept underneath a kitchen table at an apartment belonging to an acquaintance.

While this was happening a friend who had once lived in a car shook her head at me.

“See, you shouldn’t have sold your car because if you still had your car then you would have somewhere to sleep.”

Needless to say that this friend bought my car so I could finance a trip to England the previous summer. True enough, she had lived in a large car from the 1970’s after she gave up an adorable apartment in West Seattle near Alki Beach in the late 1980’s. Among my Bohemian and artists friends others had slept in cars too. In fact, it seemed to be a thing Pisces did well.  My friend didn’t want to bother her friends by asking for a spare anything and living in the car was only temporary until she moved into an apartment tower near the Paramount Theater.

However, I wasn’t thinking of this friend when I slept on couches and queen size hotel beds in Bellingham the fall of 2014. My thoughts revolved around Law of Attraction and manifesting a new home through effortlessness, even though the other half of me busted her butt looking at houses that I had no intention of ever living inside. At the time, I had a sense that I would attract the right situation at the right time and not through sheer effort, but I had also been taught that nothing comes to us without effort–therein lied the conflict.

I knew from following the Law of Attraction that I had to focus on my bliss and follow my passion. However, the guilt that accompanied me when I set out to look for a bee painting in various businesses around town as part of the Sustainable Connections treasure hunt, or walk through parks with my camera in-tow, or even attended an outdoor salsa concert at the Village Green, caused me to spiral into the abyss. Yet, the housing search seemed fruitless as I phoned one disappointing lead after another.

I actually began my effortless search for a new apartment at the beginning of August thinking that if I practiced Creative Visualization and sent out e-mails to my local contacts, not to mention honk my horn on social media, I would manifest the perfect home for me in the right neighborhood. When a friend mentioned that a housing search would take all my time, energy and focus, I chuckled. What arrogance!

Then later in the month, especially around the time I watched children building homes out of cardboard, I panicked. I dreamed about renting a room in a philanthropist’s home in the South Hill neighborhood and thought I had my solution. Only, I didn’t know any wealthy philanthropists with a room for rent in a South Hill mansion so I contacted my friends and colleagues who also didn’t know anyone that fit that description. So this led to me contacting the philanthropy non-profits only to get directed to the Opportunity Council–not exactly what I had in mind. The signs I hung around town also didn’t attract any philanthropists.

Finally, I hit Craig’s List, even though I said I would avoid this site. I had gone that route before which caused me to dodge one flaky situation after another. The other problem the landlords posting on Craig’s List is that they wanted first, last and a deposit while covering less of the utilities, if at all. I phoned some of the house shares but I’m allergic to cats and not 420-friendly (slang for pot-smokers). Other situations such as the attic room in a house with the only bathroom under renovation just seemed dubious to me.

“We have permission to use the neighbor’s toilet and shower.”

“Well, how long will the renovation on the bathroom take?”

“We don’t know, but we also live in the house and would also experience the inconvenience.”

“How much are you asking for rent?”

Not that I would have considered such a rental, but desperation sunk in.

I experienced one glimmer of hope when I responded to an ad for a room in the “Lotus House” which was a household of yoga instructors and a massage therapist in the Roosevelt Neighborhood (but a better section of the “bad” neighborhood). The home owners asked interested renters to e-mail a short essay about why we thought we would fit into this type of household. I e-mailed three essays and never received an invite to see the house.

Finally, I reached the end of the month with no permanent home in sight. Had I not gleaned the Law of Attraction? Was I entertaining too many negative thoughts? How could I stop my monkey mind from spinning toxic thoughts? Two days before I vacated the apartment and closed the door of 2-D for the final time, I came across a greeting card at the post office with the message, “You’re stronger than you think.” Then I knew that life was about to challenge me on a mammoth level. And it did.

Sure, I could blame my uncomfortable situation on a midlife crisis or my upcoming menopause since I had recently turned fifty. I had heard of strange occurrences surrounding women who surpassed fifty that involved leaps of faith, leaving stable careers or home situations, or taking up skydiving. After three years of paying high rent for the misery, I gave notice to vacate Hades. Only in Bellingham, do slumlords resemble sunny family men and this leads to confusion, especially when demanding rights. How do you ask for more respectful treatment when the landlord is smiling at you?

“Victorian charm” often means “It’s a ghetto with built in cabinets, drawers and rusty turn-of-the-nineteenth-century sinks.”

Some friends applauded my courageous move causing me to think that I had turned into a domestic version of Erin Brockovich. Other friends and my parents thought I had lost my mind. My opinions of myself landed somewhere in the middle, seesawing between extremes.  At first, I thought if I e-mailed everyone I knew in Bellingham (and beyond) and hit social media with a request for an eco-friendly apartment or house-share, then by the end of August I would move into my dream home. The average time for finding a decent rental in Bellingham is two to three months, more when housing is at a premium (when the university is in session). Also 55% of the housing market revolved around rentals and owning a house starts at $300,000.

In August, each day as I woke up realizing I was nowhere closer to achieving that dream, I panicked which caused me to spiral downward and entertain nightmarish thoughts. Since we attract more of what we focus upon, I kept encountering homeless people on the bus, on the streets, and in my dreams–the stench of poverty lodging in my nose. Then on the final day of my stay in my apartment (after a sleepless night), I phoned a storage rental place, contacted friends to help me move and I booked a room in a hotel. Sleeping in the doorway of the Federal Building didn’t appeal to me.

To give you a brief idea of the challenges I faced I’ll let you know that I suffer from allergies and sensitivities which makes finding healthy housing a priority. I live in a city where housing costs have skyrocketed and finding affordable healthy housing draws comparison to winning the lottery. Since we get more of what we focus upon (deficits in my case), I kept seeing posts on Craig’s List for other desperate middle age women with sensitivities begging for a mother-in-law apartment.

In Bellingham, the correct name for this type of apartment is ADU or Access Dwelling Unit. And if a tenant moves into an illegal ADU, the city code officer can ask her to vacate the apartment. The legal ADUs cost more because the landlords had to pay hefty fees for registration and permits. The other rental option is to move into a mega apartment building and pay numerous fees, first, last, and deposit to a rental management company. Often these companies don’t refund the deposit when the tenant vacates. And it’s like jumping through fire hoops to rent a mega apartment (my term).

On the morning of my move, I woke up around five a.m. and meditated among packed boxes. I grabbed a yogurt and a packet of Vega protein powder for breakfast. Then I packed the remainder of my belongings. This turned into frenzy after I noticed the time since Anna would arrive shortly to move the first load to the storage facility, which I hadn’t even rented yet.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t able to get in contact with a man who offered his SUV to help me move and when I remembered the size of Anna’s car, I realized I would have to give my furniture away. So between packing, I hopped on Craig’s List and posted my furniture under free stuff. My e-mail filled with requests immediately which led to chaos.

Anna arrived as a God-send and she never complained about moving boxes down three flights of stairs and half a block where she miraculously squeezed large quantities of boxes and bags into her eco-car.

“I’m sorry I’m busy answering these e-mails and still packing, otherwise I would help you get those boxes downstairs.” I kept glancing at my watch hoping I could bring time to a standstill.

Apparently, Anna enjoyed the exercise. “I have the Kapha Dosha (Ayurvedic Medicine of India) so I’m like a camel who can go without water, food or rest for a long time.”

As it turned out, the yogurt with Vega protein powder would be the only food I ate that day until around six p.m. when I landed at the hotel. While Anna had the camel thing going for her, my energy flagged throughout that afternoon. I battled with intense thirst, hunger and my limbs trembled every time I even looked at a box of books, much less lift it and carry it down three flights of stairs to dump it on the sidewalk next to Anna’s car. Our schedule was too tight even for a bathroom break, plus I had already cleaned the toilet.

I also resembled a train wreck, with my sweaty T-Shirt clinging to me and the dust from my former apartment clinging to my jeans. Later that day when Anna and I stood in the hotel parking lot surrounded by Russian bride’s maids wearing spiky heels, we look around and chuckled.

“Suddenly, I feel rather short.”

“I know, right?” Anna eyed the Russian women and chuckled.

I’m not the kind of person who enjoys making executive decisions, but events of that day required me to think quickly on my feet and bark out commands. I also learned a lesson in time management since time seemed to move more quickly than the average day, as we loaded the car on one end, sped across the city to the storage unit where we crammed my belongings without much thought about placement. We saved the futon and frame for the last load which unfortunately, ended up in another friend, Ted’s Jeep until the following Tuesday since the storage facility closed at two p.m. sharp and it was Labor Day weekend.

By late afternoon, after the storage unit closed, we arrived at the hotel with my 1960’s Japanese china and clothing. The plan was to dump this stuff off at the hotel room I reserved and then I would return to the apartment for a last bit of cleaning.

However, when I arrived at the hotel in full swing of a Russian wedding party, I learned that my room wasn’t ready and that it would be another hour.

I chastised the concierge, “You told me that I could check into the room at three p.m.  What do you expect me to do with my stuff?”

“You can leave your belongings in our office until your room is available. We’re sorry but we’re behind schedule.” I tried not to breathe in the chlorine permeated air.

I gathered later that some of the hotel staff took the long weekend off and so they were short-handed.

Later I realized that I should have dumped off my computer too since I would have to carry two backpacks on a bus filled with my computer, my phone, my modem and food for my final trip to the hotel. Since it was Sunday, I’d have to wait forty-five minutes for the bus to show up. A camel physique would have come in handy, but unfortunately, I measure at five-feet-four-inches with a slightly frame and nerve problems with my upper body.

By the time I got to my hotel room, I hopped into the shower and allowed the hot water to massage my body. I stayed under the shower washing away not just the stress from that day, but also a sense of hopelessness I carried for three years.

I took my mind off my housing crisis and focused on the Turkish salad which consisted of garbanzo beans, dates, black olives, onions and garlic drenched in balsamic vinegar. I wished that I had ordered a bigger portion since hunger weakened me. I ate the vanilla yogurt as dessert.

Since I was used to eating my meals in my old apartment and not a hotel room with strange beds and a kitchenette, I couldn’t help but to contemplate my fate and my financial situation. At one-hundred and forty dollars a night, I realized that the hotel would eat my rent money in a matter of days, and then with nowhere else to go, I would land on the street. So that’s how it happens, I thought. That’s when I realized that every moment counted and that I would beat the system at its own game. I could always phone my parents.

However, when I plugged in my computer I couldn’t get the screen to work. Moments later when I tried to connect to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, I ran into other problems.

Fortunately, the hotel’s IT person was staying at the hotel that night. An hour later, I was online but my problems weren’t over yet. I still had no housing prospects. Since sleeping on the street terrified me, I tossed my rent money at hotel and watched my funds evaporate. Meanwhile, I hopped on my e-mail account and appealed to everyone I knew for a spare room–temporary or otherwise.

In the meantime, I received an e-mail from a literary agent in New York who wanted me to phone her about my non-fiction book, Whole Music. While this was great news, I wasn’t able to make a long-distance phone call from the hotel and I still suffered from survival mode short-term thinking. Later, I bought a phone card, but the opportunity had already passed. As it turned out, that wasn’t the only disappointment I would suffer on my housing quest causing me to beat myself up emotionally. Still part of me knew that a greater plan was at work. At least this is what my spiritual mentors had taught me to think. But where were they during my crisis?

It’s true as I sit on the other side of my experience and write about the beginnings of my housing quest, I don’t even recognize the Patricia of the autumn of 2014. Many times, I floated outside of myself and watched events from an emotional distance like watching a movie of someone else’ life. Then by the time my ordeal had ended and I moved the last of my belongings into a studio cottage, I started giving away clothing and items that no longer defined me. I had become the proverbial snake shedding skin or perhaps the proverbial butterfly pushing her way out of a cocoon. I even switched loyalties and grew tired of seeing the same people.

Even though I didn’t know what was really happening on August 31, 2014, I was busting out of an old life to embrace a more expansive worldview that eventually sent new rockets of desire into my Vortex. At the age of fifty, I had finally arrived at the cosmic party and unwilling to put up with anymore nonsense. And sadly for the next three months I would put up with more nonsense than anyone.

Copyright owned by Patricia Herlevi, All Rights Reserved

Write it–Tips to Writing a Powerful Memoir

When I first starting writing my memoir, I got caught up telling instead of showing my story.  I waded in exposition that bored every tooth in my head, not to mention my eyelashes.  In the past, I ran into boring exposition in other people’s memoirs too.  Why do we equate memoir with boring story?

Well, I can think of two reasons: First, we’re afraid to include dialogue because we can’t remember the conversations we had with others verbatim.  We’re afraid that someone will ring our neck and drag us into court if we put words in their mouths.  Second,  we worry that if we add an actual narrative with scenarios that include action along with dialogue that we entered the world of novel writing.  But let me ask you this question.  Do you really think that memoir authors such as Liz Gilbert remembered all her conversations as they were exactly spoken?

Now, there’s a huge difference between making things up and relying on memory to the best of our ability. The second scenario involves integrity and ethics because we’re trying to get it right to the best of our knowledge.  The first scenario implies that we’re just making stuff up and placing words in other people’s mouths that we would have liked to have spoken.  Wishful thinking does not equate an honest telling of the past.  That lands in the fantasy realm.

The other thing I learned is to get all the anger, resentment and negative feelings out during the rough draft and a second draft if it is required.  Then delve into a space of forgiveness and compassion for everyone involved in the story.  While it’s still your story to tell and through your eyes and your memory, ask yourself what it would feel like to walk in the other people’s shoes.  Psychoanalysis of others isn’t required and we’re best avoiding placing our memoir characters on the psychoanalysis couch.  Also avoid the exposition that results from delving into someone else’ head space.  Memoirs reflect our memories and our point-of-view which readers of this genre do get.

Avoid adding anything (especially that sounds bitter, self-pitying and resentful) to the story that actually doesn’t move the narrative forward.  I cut out a lot of this type of writing from my first draft because I realized I was ranting and not sharing a cathartic story.  I thought of readers wading through paragraphs, if not actual pages of me joining a pity festival.  This pity party didn’t move my story forward and just made other people look like predators out to destroy me, which in reality wasn’t the case.
So we can write dialogue that comes from the best of our memory and we can write scenarios in the same way that we write fiction, but it’s stuff that actually happened in our lives.  We also have the right to invent structure so we don’t have to tell our memoir chronologically, meaning we can step back and forth through time.  In actuality, I have never met anyone with a linear mind.  How often does your mind wander into the future or into the past? Try meditating and you’ll see what I mean?

Even Liz Gilbert with her carefully structured three-part memoir travels back to her past.  Even when she’s in Italy and India, she’s still bringing her divorce and marriage from the past into the present.  That’s the way our minds work, especially if we have undisciplined minds, which most of us do have.   Besides, memoir is French for memory and memory doesn’t occur in the present moment.  This means that we can play around with structure.  I encourage you to watch movies with unusual structures or books told in fragments to inspire you about creating the structure for your memoir.  I chose to tell parallel stories in mine so I have ten interludes about suffering from multiple chemical sensitivities interlaced with my housing quest in 2014.

The final element required for a memoir besides dialogue/scenarios and narrative structure is a voice.  The best memoirs feature a strong voice whether that’s a wry and funny voice or a spiritually powerful one or a fragile voice of someone coming into their own and beginning to acknowledge his or her personal power, I guess the word I’m looking for is vulnerability.   Once you have the dialogue/scenarios, structure and voice, the last selling and reading point is strong writing.  Work on sentence structure by varying length of sentences, balance exposition (telling) with scenarios (showing) and give the reader a good reason to read your memoir when they have thousands of other books they could pick up and read.

I’ll share more of what I learn during my memoir-writing journey as I work on my revising this spring.  If you would like a intuitive coaching session for writing or other creative projects, sign up for a session at Metaphysics for Everyday Living.  

Holding Out for the Cinderella Ending

I thought I had completed my memoir, Woman Sleeping on the Couch last spring, but with a recent turn-of-events, I still have one last chapter to write. And I’m hoping for a Cinderella type ending.

At the beginning of August, my landlord gave me 30 days to vacate my current home. This home was never meant to be permanent but a jumping off point to my dream home. I have dealt with spiders, mold, and other irritations for the past several months, but at the same time I was grateful to live in the Sunnyland neighborhood of Bellingham.

Given my experiences from last fall, mainly dealing with narcissists and their ensuing drama as I couch surfed, I went into panic mode at the beginning of August thinking that I would have to experience the in between home scenarios once again. But then something miraculous happened and a friend hooked me up with a channeled session, much like the Abraham-Hicks work and I began uncovering my blocks by transmuting fear and despair into anger that burned through all the lies I had been taught since childhood. I let go of defenses and allowed myself to dream big.

So with a few days left to manifest my dream home (something I hadn’t even considered prior to doing Louise Hay’s affirmations and this clearing work), I see myself walking into a counter intuitive situation and living in a beautiful home for free by exchanging creative services (interior decorating, photography, etc). It can be done and when this dream home manifests, I’ll complete my memoir and begin another round of pitches.