Recently, I’ve been working more seriously than ever on the opening chapter of my memoir. “More seriously” for a couple of reasons. For one, my editing work inexplicably dried up after the New Year, with the major advantage being that I’ve finally been able to hear my inner voice again.
The other reason I’ve been so focused on writing this chapter is that I’ve needed to throw myself into something creative and restorative after being attacked by a (sadly psychotic) neighbor and losing my apartment as a result; when your brain and body are still processing life-or-death-level fear, it helps to have somewhere peaceful to retreat to. Even if that peaceful “somewhere” is a memory. And — dare I say — creating my own place of peace, through writing, has been helping.
What I wasn’t expecting, however, is how magical committing to writing this chapter would be. In a weird way, the process seems to have been reshaping my world; as the weeks go on and I make creative strides, it’s been amazing to observe how vividly and concretely the past can return when you throw yourself into it. Life has been serving up an impressive menu of stuff from yesteryear that I never thought I’d see again.
First, there’s the fact that my temporary dip into homelessness landed me right back in one of my favorite apartments ever. A simple place, special for…
