I’m writing a story about Autumn for an anthology. I was going with an urban fantasy detective story. Then I thought about some cute love story.
However, while in a meeting my mom placed in front of me “Writer’s Digest.” What was the focus? Memoirs. Creative nonfiction. I met my last ex in fall. It was the most exciting, exhilarating, terrifying weekend of my life. I never in my life went through so many ups and downs in a 48 hour period. It was perfect.
The first paragraph was easy. It was a brief introduction, a hook about how the weekend was insane. It was. It’s hard for me to keep track of when different events happened, because it kept happening. That’s why I thought it would make a great short story for my anthology.
But as I wrote it, the words became unwieldy. Maybe it’s the headache, but I don’t think so. It’s not even that the memories hurt anymore. They’re honestly quite pleasant. It’s just difficult to write a memoir of such weight, of such size, of such behemoth action. Seriously.
Every other hour seemed to be a test. I was getting yelled at, chastised, belittled. I went at someone with more anger and wrath than I have ever went at someone, to the point my ex thought I was going to deck him. I met her father who was going to call the police on me. Her friends said I wasn’t good enough for her, and I only dragged her down. It was the first time they met me.
Why do I want to write this story? Because I never felt so alive. I never felt more resolute.
Maybe my current skill level is unable to write it. Maybe I will never be able to write it, as the events are so numerous it’s hard to keep the order straight. I’m sure already that the time line is botched. But it is a beautiful story. And if it ended on that Sunday afternoon in November, it would have been a happy ending.
Maybe some day.