My memoir group, The River, met for the final time tonight.
Endings are a strange thing, and not just in that cliched way of endings of some things being beginnings of something else.
Endings are strange because nothing actually ends. Things fragment and fracture, yes, but pieces remain.
For the past five months, I was part of this memoir group using the metaphor of The River. We were on a raft together, floating along, sometimes in smooth waters but more often hanging on through the rapids. Sometimes, we went off on our own, branching off in a stream or deciding to leave the raft for a bit to paddle up a tributary or hike along the banks. Yet we all came back together to share in our struggles as writers, as memoirists, and to share in our life struggles, too.
When I began my journey on the river, it was my intent to complete a draft of my memoir that I’ve been working on since November of 2017.
I didn’t complete a draft, but I did come away with the following:
- I have come more fully into my identity as a writer, and my writing practice is more consistent and persistent than it was and I’ve made strides towards completing a draft.
- I’ve shifted from writing about the book, and writing about my process and goals to writing the book.
- I have a clearer view of the structure of the book, and what I want the final product to be
- I’m eager to write and often times would rather do that than anything else that wants my time
- I’m also recognizing that lulls are natural, and that while I’m not actively writing the book, the book is still writing me.
I feel confident that I will complete the book. I’ve been saying, for a couple years now, “I will finish my book” but the mantra has been some sort of desperate plea, and now it is a statement of fact.
I will finish the book. The book will finish me.
The river flows on.
Ink and Vein 