The Memoirist's Great Fear, Part 2

My inability to ask my friend for permission to write about him in my memoir, Standoff at Ronnie's Place, (read part one of this post here) made me realize something: I was willingly participating in yet another standoff.

My memoir puts forth two: the ten-hour police action born of my husband’s stubborn determination to die on the farm of his dreams with his family intact, despite my divorce proceedings against him; and the twelve-year standoff born of my own stubbornness to face down his act by adhering to our decision to raise our sons there. My summer home friend had also been ending a long relationship at the time Ron died, and our deepening friendship was both life-affirming and misunderstood by everyone involved—perhaps most importantly, by him and me. The pain Ron’s suicide caused him eventually eroded our friendship in a way that kept him from talking to me for 12 years. A whole new standoff began.

I could no longer perpetuate the problem. We'd once had a strong base of friendship and we were still alive—and since Ron's suicide I'd believed that where there's life, there's hope. I would break our interpersonal silence.

So I got his cell number from his sister, dialed, and when he acted like it had been only yesterday since we spoke, I did what any brave-hearted woman would do: I lied.

“I’m writing something for the boys, about Ron’s suicide, and I was wondering if you might come over so I could pick your brain on a few details,” I said. Okay it wasn’t completely a lie—if the project is never published, it might be just for my sons after all.

“Sure,” he said, sounding for all the world like the compassionate man I remembered him to be. He said he’d call me later in the week to set up a time. And I’m thinking, yeah, right.

He called. He came over. We sat in Adirondack chairs overlooking the lake we both love.

“I brought you here under false pretenses,” I blurted. I am not the world’s best liar.

“Before we get into that—how are the boys?”

His humanity and our interpersonal connection ultimately affirmed, I was able to tell him that I was actually writing this memoir for publication. And why. And that he was the only obstacle standing between me and its completion. I explained my concern about his family and why I almost didn’t call. I informed him of his legal rights as I understood them.

“I don’t see why you can’t go ahead and write it," he said.

"And use your first name?”

"Sure."

I couldn’t relax yet. “And your girlfriend will be okay with it—all of it?”

He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, as if I’d sucker-punched him. All was quiet. Even the birds in the trees above us kept their peace.

I said, “She does know, right? I mean, my husband knows all about it, and that I'm talking to you today.”

“Wow," he said. "You have a good relationship.”

He determined he’d tell her. I determined I’d finish my memoir. Upon completion, I promised to send the manuscript to his sister for delivery—no point deviling his girlfriend with it prematurely, he'd said. I said it would arrive with a release form, and that in order for me to move forward, he’d have to sign it.

From our first hello in 12 years to release from liability—in the course of an hour we’d covered a lot of ground.

But when he left, he anticipated no problem in signing off on the memoir—and by doing the thing I feared most, I was set free to write it.

What is the thing you've feared doing most in your writing career? Approaching an agent at a cocktail party? Reading your work in public? Please share!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kathryn Craft is a developmental editor at Writing-Partner.com, an independent manuscript evaluation and line editing service. Formerly a dance critic and arts journalist, she now writes women's fiction and memoir. At her blog, Healing through Writing, she is currently posting about the philosophical, logistical, and biological challenges of healing from a triple ankle fracture sustained during Hurricane Irene.