It was an emotional class last week. Our homework had been to write the first 600 words of our own memoir. It was a real challenge. My own life story would read like a soap opera, with twists, turns and ridiculous decisions illuminating my history like cheap tinsel and gaudy baubles on a secondhand christmas tree. This was clearly not a direction I wanted to take in writing class where I like to portray myself as a sophisticated, slightly mysterious woman of the world. I'm afraid I cheated. No 600 word intro leading on to bigger things. Instead I drafted a 40 line poem about my children who really are the closest thing I have to a redeeming feature.
My class mates were far braver. I feel privileged that they chose not to cheat and instead answered the teacher's brief. The work read out loud was powerful and simple. Every writer stripped themselves bare, revealing things that you wouldn't usually show to people you barely know.. It was raw and emotional. Focusing. A reminder that outside your own little world there are other people living, feeling, crying, laughing.
Life writing. I have never given it proper consideration. From now on I will.
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