On Writing Memoir, Part 3, “Fractured”

This is the third in my series on memoir. Adjusting to my blindness after my accident meant many things. My life took a new direction, and not just because I was now an eleven-year-old kid who was totally blind and not able to do many of those things he did before. I began reading books, and the world opened up for me in a new way, just as it seemed to be shutting down in others. I will have more to say about reading in a later post.
When I was in my thirties and had two children of my own, I was at a family dinner, helping my cousin to wash the dishes. She was telling me about suffering something she called seasonal affective disorder, a kind of depression I’d never heard of. It affected her during the winter months, and she was doing a variety of things to manage it. This was one of those moments for me—some people call them epiphanies. it occurred to me that I had been experiencing something similar for years—but during the summer and not the winter.
It took some time, but I began to realize that every year, right around the middle of May, I experienced a strange flattening out, a kind of compression of my emotional life that didn’t ease up until nearly the beginning of the school year in September. It was depression. The accident that took my sight happened in the middle of August, and feeling some form of depression during the summer months had become so normal for me that I’d stopped questioning the pattern.
I began writing about this strange depression, and one of the results is “Fractured,” a piece that appeared last Christmas in Green Briar Review.
This piece describes an early awareness of depression, but I had no ability at the time to understand it. Years later, I still have to work at understanding my depression—when it manifests and why. As a child and a teen, I had few means of sorting the complex, confusing, and often destructive emotions I felt. As an adult, I now have the language to describe it, to explore it, and to better understand it. I’m thankful for that, and thankful for all the hours in therapy that helped me sort through this difficult period of my life.

On Writing Memoir, Part 2, “Running Blind”

This is the second in my series on writing memoir. Things have changed radically in the last week because of COVID-19. . I considered suspending any work on this blog for the duration of this crisis, but I decided to carry on—not because I don’t think people already have enough to occupy their lives, but because I think it’s important to proceed as normally as possible as events unfold. For me, maintaining my normal means continuing my teaching by distance for the two universities I work for. Students need to continue their studies, and they need as much support as possible as they do so. It means reading and writing, walking and taking care of my home, all while I support my own family through this crisis.
The piece I’m sharing today is as much about family as anything else. Last week, I posted a piece about my father. This week, my mother has a part. I could not have made it through the very difficult time of adjusting to my blindness without the support of my parents. My mom did everything she could. I was often confused and angry after the accident, but I was also just a kid, trying to figure out my new reality.
“Running Blind” first appeared in The Real Story in 2018. In some ways, it’s a piece about me being angry and trying to understand the changes in my life. It’s also about my mother trying to help, or at least trying to give me a way to burn off some of that anger.
I ran for years and years. I still love to run, especially early morning in spring and fall. My knees don’t like it as much anymore, so I’m more content these days to simply walk and walk, reading my books and enjoying the outdoors.

On Writing Memoir, A Series

The impulse behind writing memoir is sometimes hard to understand. Memoir makes public that which is often painfully private. Sometimes the impulse is to create a narrative that tells a particular story or part of a story; sometimes it’s the desire to gain control of one’s own narrative while making that story available to the world.
In 2019, I taught a class in Literary Nonfiction that examined a range of texts, many of which were memoir. We read excerpts from The Diaries of Susanna Moodie and the first two chapters of C. S. Lewis’s Surprised by Joy. This is the C. S. Lewis of Narnia fame. His memoir is subtitled “A Spiritual Biography,” which gives the book a very particular direction. However, some of Lewis’s friends and colleagues were so mystified by the book they called it “Surprised by Jack.” The book that most interested students was Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. Strayed is a fine writer and speaker, and she writes openly and directly about her experiences, which creates a particular kind of vulnerability many of my students found arresting.
I’ve been writing memoir for a few years now, and I think the desire to write my own story began with a degree of vanity. Perhaps vanity is too strong, but it certainly began with the desire to talk about myself. At some point in my thirties I wrote a piece on losing my sight in a car accident at the age of eleven. I wrote that piece because I wanted to be published. I wrote it because I wanted to share the story—in a self-centred sort of way—but I hadn’t yet fully realized how much this incident had altered my life. I submitted the piece for a segment on CBC Radio—they didn’t pick it up. I honestly think it was too soon, anyway. But I kept returning to that accident over the years, each time recasting it so I could try and understand it in a different way.
For me, writing memoir forces me into a position of an observer in relation to myself as a character. It isn’t always about facts, but it is about confronting the events of my life with enough honesty and vulnerability to do justice to the narrative. In that way, I’m writing about myself, while that self becomes a character with whose life I happen to be intimately familiar. It can be an exhausting exercise.
I want to share several pieces over the next few weeks, some of which have already appeared on this blog. However, I think they are worth returning to, if for no other reason than to show them as part of a series.
The first piece is called “On Smoking,” originally published by Hippocampus Magazine in 2017. This piece had several iterations over a number of ears. It’s about my dad more than it’s about the accident that took my sight. But you can find it there—the accident—forming a divide in my experience. My dad died in 2005, but his birthday was March 13, a fact he always reminded us of when feeling particularly unlucky and sorry for himself. But this seems like a good place to begin—with my dad, because of his birthday, and because even fifteen years on from his death I can still hear his voice in my head, offering criticism and giving advice.