Staycation

Posted on August 9, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

These past two weeks I’ve been on a staycation, a pandemic vacation. That means I’ve disconnected from my regular duties and routines and done things that refreshed me body and soul while staying mostly at home. So, I binge watched some old Seinfeld, watched a movie about Mary Shelley, read two e-books, bought a new bedspread at Big Lots, went canoeing with my husband, and found a pretty basket at my dump’s swap shop. Doesn’t sound very exciting, so let me explain why it was a fabulous!

First, what was I taking a vacation from? For the past few months, I’ve been in the final throes of publishing a book about what God taught me through a traumatic chapter in my life as a teacher, Teacher Dropout, Finding Grace in an Unjust School. That means a vulnerable part of my life is now visible to readers who may judge me and/or my art. Obviously, this is not why I wrote a book. Rather, I hoped to share my experience and insights, in order that others who resonate with my story may gain insight into their own struggles.

Why was fear of judgement my first thought after I pressed the final send button to launch my book on Amazon? Because I self-published. Anyone can do it, and just because your words are in print, doesn’t mean they’re worth reading. Sounds harsh, but this is what was in my head. In the past, self-publishing was considered vanity press. Authors who couldn’t attract the attention of a traditional publisher paid large sums just to see their words on a page. Now that my book is available to the public, will it prove valuable to others or prove me a vain fool?

To reset my brain from negative chatter at a time that should feel satisfying and triumphant, I read Emily P. Freeman’s, The Next Right Thing When Emily challenged her reader to name the narrative that was driving their decisions, I realized my anxiety about promoting my book was because I’d skipped the step of being chosen by publishing professionals. How then, could I be sure of my book’s caliber? Maybe because I’m adopted, or maybe because I’m just human, I have a desperate need to be chosen not rejected. Chosen means valued, significant, seen, worth something. There’s that word again, worth. I thought I knew better than to equate the worth of my writing with my worth as a person. Ironically, Teacher Dropout is about defining my worth as a child of God through Christ rather than my professional status. Maybe I’m relearning the same old lesson in this new chapter of my life as a writer. Maybe this question will always dog me, dog us all, if we don’t cling to what God’s Word says about us, instead of relying on the world’s opinion.

Speaking of new chapters, another bit of wisdom from Emily was it’s okay to be a beginner at things you’ve never done. This helped me relax into all I need to learn about lead magnets, public speaking, YouTube, podcasts, etc. even if it feels overwhelming, especially for an introvert.

The other book I read was Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson, all about the creative process. The major takeaway, for me, was that community nourishes art and art nourishes community. This concept ran through my head as I watched Seinfeld and the story of Mary Shelley, wife of a famous poet, and author of Frankenstein. Whether comic or tragic, fictional or true, both Seinfeld and Shelley lived in communities that directly influenced their art. Even if I chose to self-publish, I was not alone. Everyone who had encouraged my writing, critiqued it, or listened to my thoughts and feelings through the writing process was a critical part of bringing my book to fruition. According to Peterson, artistic community is something I must continue to pursue.

Another thing I got from Peterson is that beauty matters. Natural beauty, the beauty of a home and its surroundings. In a way, he gave me permission to spend my staycation puttering around my house and garden. As a writer, I’m always editing what I put on the page. As a woman, I’m always editing my home, trying to find a theme, or a pleasing palette. As a treasure hunter, I’m always looking for that small item, put in the perfect spot that ties a room together like the kicker at the end of an essay.

One day, to escape the heat, I browsed in an air-conditioned Big Lots with an idea from Pinterest for refreshing my bedroom. In a bargain bin, I found a bedspread complete with decorator pillows that made the whole room look new.

Saturday, I took my weekly trip to the dump, and in the shed where you can take or leave useful items, I found a small basket in the shape of a star. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. Maybe a Christmas decoration? Anyway, I brought it home because something about it pleased me.

That evening, my husband and I took our green canoe to a small pond for a cool paddle before dusk. We meandered the perimeter passing a stone dam decked with Queen Anne’s lace, a family of mallards, and a great blue heron flushed from shore by the quiet swish of our old boat.

Lying in bed that night, I reviewed my staycation’s quiet refreshments: how reading Emily P. Freeman on my back porch helped me name the deeper things beneath my decisions. How Andrew Peterson was right, gliding over glassy water in a silent canoe with the man who promised to love me for better or worse, was a tangible echo of God’s omnipotent love whether I’m full of doubt or confidence.

As I pulled up my cozy new comforter, I scanned the room. Satisfied with its new harmony, my gaze fell upon the star I’d decided to hang above my mirror, the free star someone else had discarded. And I saw, even though I’d decided not to use it as a Christmas decoration, it was still a symbol of the babe who was God incarnate. That star was the one thing, in the perfect spot, that somehow pulled the whole room together, and I thought, the theme of my whole staycation.

Now, every morning when I consider my reflection, I’ll look up and remember the one who chose me and gave me stories I have to tell, Jesus, the person Emily calls, the smartest person in the universe, willing to take my hand as I take one step at a time in my new adventure as a writer. What could be more refreshing?

Posted in Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth, Uncategorized, Writing Process | 4 Comments

The Onion Principle

Posted on July 17, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

Understanding life happens in layers. I’ll call this the onion principle. You think you know how things work and what is important and then it is disproved or refined by experience, and another layer of the onion is stripped away getting you closer to the truth of the universe. For example, I grew up in an upwardly mobile suburb with the understanding that you are what you do, therefore the goal of life is to achieve academically and succeed professionally.

This was my original onion, problematic for all the years I was a stay-at-home mom because motherhood is unacknowledged work. So, who was I? A nothing? During this time, I became a brand-new Christian. I went to a woman’s retreat, and the speaker said words that struck me as rocket science. “You are not what you do. You are who you are as a result of your relationship with Jesus Christ.” As a nothing, I was thrilled to learn that God had given me infinite value as evidenced by sacrificing his only son on the cross for all my inadequacies. But this new understanding only peeled away one layer of the onion.

When my kids were in middle school and high school, I went to work as a teacher. Now I was doing something. Therefore, I was something, an educator. And when I found a free master’s program, I eagerly signed up to become an even more valuable something. Looking back, even as a believer, I was still conforming to the pattern of this world.

The problem with this paradigm, of course, is who are you when you fail? This is the question I grapple with in my book about teaching in an under-performing urban school rife with racism and generational poverty, Teacher Dropout, Finding Grace in an Unjust School. When my students, labeled under-achievers, failed to progress as I’d hoped, I also felt like a failure. Did this make me an under-achiever too? I cried for myself and my students as if a literal onion had been chopped.

The words from the women’s retreat came back to me. “You are not what you do. You are who you are as a result of your relationship with Jesus Christ. Through the son of God’s sacrifice, I was made the holy, chosen, and beloved child of the king of the universe. Col.3:12. A child is a relationship that can’t be negated by behavior or performance. You can’t stop being a child of God. Not as teacher or student if only you believe.

The thing is, you can know a truth in your head. It sounds logical. You accept it, but it is another thing entirely to have to trust that truth when all hell breaks loose. But this is often what it takes to loosen another layer of the onion.

Memoir is my favorite genre because it tells the messy truth of our lives. I love to read it, and I love to write it as a way of peeling the stingy, tear-soaked onion together as we get closer and closer to living the truth that God’s grace is the only thing that can set us free no matter what we do.   

Here is the link to Teacher Dropout

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New book, Teacher Dropout, Finding Grace in an Unjust School

Posted on July 11, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

My first ebook, Teacher Dropout, Finding Grace in an Unjust School, is FREE this Sat.- Sun. 7-11-20 thru 7-12-20 on Amazon.

I wrote this book a decade ago, but it takes a while to sort out what events really mean in your life. This is a book about finding my core identity in Christ after my professional identity and self-worth burned up in the cauldron of an under-performing school rife with racism and generational poverty. But feeling like a failure ushered me into deeper understanding of the cross, and changed the way I saw myself, others, and God. Funny how God’s perfect timing brings things to fruition at just the right moment. In light of current events, I hope it helps you sort out whatever you’re struggling with.

Here’s the link to Teacher Dropout

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Is it Done Yet?

Posted on July 3, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

How do you know when you’re ready to publish something you feel absolutely compelled to write? For memoir writers, especially, this question is paramount. This week I watched Michele Cushatt interviewed by Emily Freeman of Hope Writers and found answers that helped me move forward with one of my memoir projects.

Another memoir guru, Marion Roach Smith, says that memoir is about something you know after something you’ve been through. And how do we know anything? For writers, that usually means scribbling our thoughts and feelings for sometimes years to get at the meaning that Cushatt says makes our suffering worth it. Yes, until I can clearly express the significance of an incident, a relationship, a trauma, a season of my life, I’m not ready to put down my pen nor file it in my memory as a done deal.

Cushatt’s basic question concerning publishing is: are you still writing for your own catharsis, or are you  writing out of compassion to connect with others who may have suffered as you have? This is not an easy answer because this transition, for me anyway, came in stages.

What I enjoyed so much about Cushatt’s interview was what I’ll call her publishing readiness checklist. If any of the following are true, then you’re not ready to publish:

Are you still volatile on the topic?

Defensive?

Desperate to talk and write about it.

Do you still feel confused or wounded?

Do you need the approval of your reader? What if someone disagrees or can’t connect with your topic?

Are you healed and in a stable place?

I spent years within all these categories. Somehow, I always found a way to include my issues in a conversation. And was I volatile? You bet. And if you disagreed with me, let me tell you a thing or two! And yet I was still so confused about why I felt so broken, bruised, and desperate to have my story published even before it was completely written. I needed someone else, my listener, my reader, to validate me, to say yeah, you’re right. You were the victim and the other guys; they were the villains. If you are where I was, then according to Cushatt wait a while to pursue publishing.

But she adds, even when it’s not time to publish, it’s always time to write because writing is what brings clarity and clarity ushers in healing as we are able to name our hurts, desires and needs to the Lord, the God who sees. In my own experience, until I’m able to surrender my scars to the Lord, I’m not able to forgive. I’ve heard the definition of unforgiveness as drinking poison and expecting your enemy to drop dead. Only when I relinquish those who’ve hurt me to God’s justice, am I able to get well and move on.

This is the moment when you’re ready to think about publishing. Back to Roach Smith, what do I know now that I didn’t know before I went through the episode I want to share? What I learned is my theme. Be sure you can put it in a concise sentence or two.

And who needs to know? They are my audience. This is the harder question of the two for me. Who needs to know? Doesn’t everybody? Yes, but no book is for everybody. Ask yourself perhaps, why did I need to know this? What misconceptions or lies was I living under prior to the incident, that I now see differently? Who might share those misconceptions?  What hurt the most about my incident? See if you can name it in one word. Who else might be hurt by the same word? Why? Now you’re getting closer. This is the reader you can serve. Cushatt suggests creating a kind of avatar. What do they look like, how old are they? Keep them in mind as you move onto the next step.

What is the objective of your book? What are you offering your reader specifically for their benefit? There can be more than one thing, but they must be few, related, and succinct. Cushatt cautions, every  part of your story must meet your objective. If it doesn’t, you’re off the map. A reader who finds him/herself wandering for meaning may lose interest.

Understanding your objective is especially important for a writer of memoir because a memoir contains no overt takeaways but trusts the reader to find them on their own within the narrative. This is why I love to read memoir. No preachy inserts. No pre-digested thinking, only intact story that draws me in until I’m living vicariously with the author, elbow to elbow, thought to thought, feeling to feeling. So, your memoir must be tighter than tight. Every detail pointing toward the epiphanies you hope for your reader. This is a tall order for any author, but it’s what differentiates writing from literature, and literature is what lasts because it connects universally through lyric specifics.

So, thank you Michele Cushatt, Emily Freeman, and Marion Roach Smith. And fellow writers, I hope this moves you, like it did me, closer to publishing worth publication.

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Gold Mine

Posted on June 19, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

At this critical juncture in our national dialogue about race, I remember, a few years back I picked up Go Set a Watchman, purportedly a new novel by Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird. I purchased it on the spur of the moment, surprised to find the sequel to a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel at deep discount in Walmart.

Then I began reading. Although the book starts with a lyric description of Alabama landscape, the narrative quickly wanders off to seemingly disconnected anecdotes about train travel, delinquent cousins, Civil War battles, and more.  Although familiar characters soon appear: Jean Louise Finch, as the grownup Scout, and her beloved father, Atticus, they are inconsistent with their portrayal in Mockingbird. I kept searching for a clear voice, a compelling through line, until I abandoned reading it.

What a relief to hear NPR’s Maureen Corrigan call it “kind of a mess.” It wasn’t just me. The provenance of the new novel was also questionable. Perhaps it was not new at all, only a newly discovered first draft of To Kill a Mockingbird.

If this was true, on my bedside table lay the dry bones of a masterpiece. What an opportunity for a writer, to study the stuttering first blurt, against the finished work. What a lesson in craft, to see the decisions made about narration, characterization, and plot, knowing the end result brought to life the voice of Scout, the little girl who dared speak the truth about racism in her hometown.

And what an encouragement to know that even a gifted author began with such a rough draft, it was unrecognizable from the book that made her famous. How reassuring to know that an astute editor could see the gold amidst the dross.

So fellow writers, know it doesn’t matter how you produce your first draft, or what it’s quality. Keep mining the story God has given you to tell and trust him for the results. You never know how treasure from your own backyard could change the world.  

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Tarzan

Posted on June 11, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

As a little girl, my family ate dinner at 6:30 every night. A meat, a vegetable, a starch, and a homemade dessert like tapioca pudding or apple brown betty. Often my brother and I watched The Early Show from 5:00-7:00 PM featuring movies like Mothra vs.Godzilla. That meant just before every climax, we’d be called to the dining room to place napkins on our laps, and say, God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for our food.

What I really wanted to pray was, God, please, let me finish the movie.

On one miraculous occasion a Tarzan movie, starring Johnny Weissmuller, aired the same night we had a babysitter, so my brother and I were allowed to eat in the den on folding trays. We tore open the aluminum foil tops of TV dinners and ate Salisbury steak, tater tots, and green beans right in front of the television while Tarzan swung from vine to vine to his tree house on the escarpment.

Jane, played by Maureen O’Sullivan, waited for her man in an animal-skin mini dress, ready to serve roast wildebeest and mashed bananas. Tarzan sat at table in his loin cloth. After a day of swimming raging rivers, wrestling alligators, and fighting off greedy white hunters and African tribesmen, it was good to relax with his mate and Cheetah, their chimpanzee child.

In high school, one morning in early June, the kind of morning that makes you want to blast the stereo, and tan on the roof, my friend Marie called, “Wanna skip school?”

“Sure!”

So, while our peers were turning the pages of Great Expectations, Marie led me to a stone wall on the edge of her neighborhood. Over the ledge, lay a mansion, and ensconced by a carefully pruned privet hedge, a built-in pool. In an era of public pools full of baby pee, this was luxury reserved for movie stars. We scaled the wall, stripped into our suits and dove into the deep end.

Then as Marie sunned in a chaise, and I balanced on the tip of the diving board, a black maid appeared through the shrubs. “Mr. Cushing would like to know if you’re friends of his son?”

Marie shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare, “Of course.”

Fortunately, Cushing junior was away at prep school, and couldn’t contradict. The maid retreated and returned with poolside chicken salad sandwiches, no more questions asked.

Years later, I learned that Maureen O’Sullivan’s second husband was Mr. Cushing, the gracious host who’d provided us liars a free lunch. I swam in Tarzan’s wife’s pool. Yet, what a letdown to find Jane living in the suburbs.  

As a child, I dreamed of living in a tree fort, like Tarzan, able to talk to animals, capable of a blood-curdling cry that could call down an elephant stampede on my enemies.

Now as a believer, I realize that paradigm is age old—Eternal Eve, her hunk Adam, keepers of a pristine paradise where God is great, and God is good. And Adam and Eve, made from mud, were definitely not white.

In the spotlight of so many deaths like Ahmad Aubrey and George Floyd’s, I also realize it was my white privilege that allowed me to trespass in a movie star’s pool without incident. And that the current protests are the long overdue elephant stampede on the forces of systemic racism.

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Home of the Brave

Posted on June 4, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

In this time of tragedy and civil unrest, I take a knee by sharing this chapter titled Home of the Brave about my white middle-class collision with generational poverty in an under-performing urban school.

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It’s only the sixth day of my new job at O’Fallon Middle School, but it feels like six months. Six months on another planet. Nothing about teaching in a suburban school is the same as teaching here. For instance, I was hired a month ago as a language arts teacher, but on the Friday before school started, Principal Reardon was still trying to fill teaching slots. When he snagged someone else willing to take my position, he reassigned me to a reading class with sixth, seventh, and eighth grade students currently reading at the third-grade level or below. In any other circumstance I might have objected, but here that doesn’t feel like an option.

At O’Fallon reading is considered a special. I thought specials were subjects like art, music, or gym, but O’Fallon offers no music, and the gym teacher is a grouchy old man recovering from open-heart surgery.

Another thing, core teachers are left alone as little as possible with their students. That’s usually no problem since there’s always another teacher in the class who is assigned to the special ed kids, the ELL kids (English Language Learners), or the BIG kids (Behavior Intensive Group).

According to this buddy system, specials teachers share a homeroom with a nearby core teacher, so I’m stationed across from my classroom with Mrs. Duval, a twenty-year veteran who teaches sixth-grade math.

This morning she’s up front as usual marking attendance and checking for missing faces. A new student, Juan Delgado, shows up for the first time today. Mrs. Duval remains at her desk, while I go to the seat Juan has chosen in the back. He’s busy making Chinese paper stars like a Kung Fu warrior.

I lean in, “Where have you been, Juan? School started a week ago.”

He answers fully concentrating on his folded weaponry. “I didn’t have any clean clothes.”

I smile. “Don’t worry about that, Juan.”

“But there’s no laundromat you can walk to from the shelter.”

“What shelter?”

“It’s supposed to be secret,” he whispers.

I whisper back. “Well, why are you there?”

“We’re hiding from my dad.”

“From your dad?”

“He gets out of jail in twenty-two days.”

“Oh,” I say.

He doesn’t look up, still concentrating on his intricate folding.

The P.A. blasts, “All rise for the National Anthem.” The scratchy recording begins, so I stay standing beside Juan.

A few rows up, Benny sits on his desk, his gangly legs hitting the floor. Chino sits beside him, smirking beneath his growing mustache. I tell them in a quiet, but I-mean-it voice to stand up and wonder if they will do what I say.

They lean on their desks.

“Boys, please stand,” echoes Mrs. Duval.

They get up and add their mocking falsettos to the soprano’s, “Rockets’ red glare. Bombs bursting in air.”

 Mrs. Duval gives them a cut-it-out look, and they’re silent, but I can see the We didn’t do anything look on their faces.

The soprano presses on with, “Gave proof through the night,” and Juan, hand over his heart, face raised towards the flag, sings along in an angel voice that hasn’t yet changed.

Benny and Chino laugh under their breath.

As the soprano asks, “Does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave?” my eyes sweep the rest of the classroom. There’s Maricela, who just returned from suspension for fighting with Carmen, a tragic celebrity because her mother was accidentally killed in a gang shooting over the summer. There’s Raul, the handsome boy with the long, wavy ponytail who was the cause of their jealous smack down. There’s quiet Luz who puts Winnie the Pooh stickers on all her notebooks, and her best friend Marta with a wiry blonde braid. There are the kids from the high math group: Daniel Garcia, Kevin Bevin, and Andrew McCarthy. There’s Marco, the kid who sits way up front because he’s legally blind, plus fifteen other students with no claim to fame so far.

After the crescendo, “In the land of the free and the home of the brave,” the song abruptly cuts off.

Principal Reardon commences the morning announcements. “It’s come to my attention that’s there’s too much running on the playground.”

Since the playground is synonymous with the parking lot, teachers are supposed to park around the edges. Kids are supposed to steer clear of the cars.

“And if I have to say this again,” Reardon continues, “there will be consequences.”

The grand finale is always Vice Principal O’Malley leading the Pledge of Allegiance. As she finishes, “With liberty and justice for all,” Juan looks up at me from his Kung Fu stars. With my hand still over my heart, I feel like the blind-folded lady holding the scales of justice. Once I heard a comedian define justice as, just us. Today it isn’t funny.

The bell rings, and Benny in his Yankees T-shirt, and Chino in his Red Sox jersey, shout, “Play ball,” and burst out the door.

As a fellow newbie, I guide Juan to Miss Glotzka’s class next door and try to quickly explain his complicated middle school schedule. Right now, that’s the only thing I’m sure of on this strange new planet where children have to be braver than I am.

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Open Seas

Posted on May 28, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

In this season of Covid 19 and commencements, I remember my own graduation many years ago, also punctuated by death, the first death of a peer. So, I share this chapter from my upcoming memoir, Back to the Garden, that portrays a newly minted adult about to embark on her future under the searchlight of eternity.

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Joe Dempsey, the bartender at the Orange, died last Saturday. I’m pretty sure he was a senior, and Saturday next, would have graduated with me from Syracuse University. Joe was the 6’ 3” fixture behind the downstairs bar, his beefy hands passing out beers and receiving payment while his dark-haired girlfriend, Sue, sat on a stool by the register. He was there every night I worked upstairs as a busgirl.

Every night that is, until a closing-time altercation with customers who weren’t ready for the party to be over. I heard there was a car chase through Thorndon Park, and somewhere on that lilac-scented hill, in the early hours of a May morning, Joe’s curly blonde head slammed against the inside of his tin can van as it careened off the curve. His heart stopped mid-beat.

I suppose you’d call Joe an acquaintance, not a friend. I didn’t go to his proper funeral, wherever it was, but I am going to the end-of-the year luncheon at the Orange for all staff.

My boyfriend, John, said, “I don’t want to go. Too sad. It’ll be like a wake.”

So, alone, I walk into the upstairs of the Orange and fill a submarine roll with cold meat from a platter set on a table in the middle of the dance floor. The jukebox is mute. Sue and Frank, the manager, are sitting on one side of a red vinyl booth. Harry, the old fellow who owns the place, spreads out on the other side of the table.

He squints his toady eyes and sucks on a Carlton. His smoke highlights dust motes floating in the stale air. “Ya done good kid.”

Good? What is good? I mastered how to put ten bottles on my fingertips at once and release them into a chute that leads directly to crates in the basement.

“Thanks,” I manage, between bites of my humongous sandwich and slurps of free beer.

I‘m still standing in the center of the small dance floor, usually so crowded, now vast in its emptiness, when Bret walks in, the bartender who manned the upstairs bar window, and Dan the guy who worked the other side of the downstairs bar with Joe. Some girlfriends I don’t know tag along. I don’t stay long after that, just long enough to notice things I’ve never noticed: the whole room stinks of bathroom cleanser, the windows are made of glass brick, the linoleum is so worn it’s hard to say for sure if it was supposed to be green. A space so thrilling in the dark, pathetic in the light of day.

Maybe John was right. I have nothing in common with the people in the room except drinking and Joe, and no one dares speak his name. I drain my cup, make my farewells, and dump what’s left of my sandwich in a trash can around the corner on M Street. I hike past the library and up the steep hill to Thorndon Park, traversing the egg-shaped drumlin until I find my favorite spot, the lilac bower in full bloom. I close my eyes and inflate my lungs with the intoxicating fragrance.

Maybe John was wrong. Joe’s death seems not so sad as weird, inscrutably weird. I continue to the tippity-top of the park and sit cross-legged on the lawn, surveying the campus where I’ve spent four years preparing for a future which could, in an instant, be erased. I glance at my smooth thighs glistening in the sunshine with fine golden hairs. My own death seems an impossible inevitability, and yet the hulking grandson of a legendary prizefighter was no match for the silent, sulking, force lurking just below the surface of existence. Was I drawn to this idyllic garden or magnetized to the site where Joe’s soul was kidnapped?

Death points a bony finger at my life and asks, are you on course? What will you do between now and nothingness, and who will care when you’re gone? Questions too big to answer alone without a rudder. A wave of emotion I can’t name takes me to a depth I can’t fathom.

A week later, I walk across the stage of the Carrier Dome to receive my diploma. I march in a white robe with the others whose last name begins with the letter C. Joe’s ghost floats behind me somewhere in the D section. D for Dempsey and Death.

Was it exactly seven days between Joe’s monumental demise and my graduation? I couldn’t guarantee. In the light of eternity, time blurs. The end of an era speeds up as it winds down.

In the wake of these two events, I can’t say which was more terrifying, a vessel sunk in harbor or launched into open seas.

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Calculating the Truth

Posted on May 12, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

I recently read, The Memoir Project by Marion Roach Smith. In it she emphasizes that a memoir is not about the author. It is about a central theme, and a select portion of the author’s life simply illustrates that theme. Marion explains, “Understanding this essential shift is the difference between writing good memoir and boring our socks off.” Haven’t we all listened to friends who can’t tell a good story because they don’t know how to leave out all the details we don’t care about?

Marion’s insight also releases us from the awkward sense of self-promotion. These carefully chosen episodes from our lives are simply the vehicle God has given us to share his truth. It’s not about us. It’s about Him.

She’s even provided an algorithm to figure out precisely what it is we are exploring. Basically, we are writing about Y by illustrating X through Z. Knowing this helps us identify and refine our theme so we can go back through our manuscript and edit or delete any story lines that don’t compute.

In my case, my Y, or theme, is recovering from shame. My X, or illustration, is how my Leave-it-to-Beaver childhood collided with my Woodstock adolescence, so I no longer considered myself a “good girl.” My Z, or genre, is a memoir, Back to the Garden, a Search for Home, True Love, and God. Set in a time when religion was considered a stale vestige of the establishment, the unlikely resolution to my identity crisis, was discovering Jesus and his mind-blowing mercy for women like me who no longer felt clean or worthy of love.

Marion’s book teaches that by taking the me out of the theme, it becomes universal. And yet the universal is expressed through specifics. Throughout history people have longed for unconditional love, and worth. Every era has its own half-truths and lies that act as land mines. Do your own thing and free love, were mine, but no one escapes this life unmaimed by some kind of shame.

So thank you Hope*writers and Marion Roach Smith for helping me calculate the truth I have to share with my readers instead of boring their socks off.

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The Red Cross

Posted on May 12, 2020 by Ann C. Averill

As a brand-new Hope*writer I was struck by Gary Morland’s piece, “Self-Protection or Saving Lives.” Gary uses the analogy of a lifeguard who sits high above the beach on a lifeguard chair with a red cross flag flying overhead. The lifeguard is trained to help others who are drowning, but if he sits in a beach chair like everyone else, how would those who need his help be able to find him? Gary’s analogy suggests that self-promotion is not about promoting self, but life-saving content.

So far, I confess I’ve been reluctant to get out of my low-slung beach chair, unable to distinguish my message from myself, especially because it comes in the form of a memoir. Because shame is its major theme, I’ve been hesitant to both submit and promote.   

Through Gary’s analogy, however, I see the through line between private comfort, and pride. Perhaps I care so much about what others think that I won’t risk anything on their behalf. From that angle, my timidity is not humble but selfish.

And what if people reject not only me, but the quality of my writing? Then I am not enough in yet another way.  I’ve been so busy defending myself from possible vulnerability, that I’ve been imprisoned by yet another one of shame’s shifting shadows. How ironic! My story is all about the freedom I’ve experienced through Christ’s cleansing blood.

Thanks Gary, for showing me I can’t stay in my flimsy beach chair when others are drowning in the same currents that pulled me under, not if I want to fly Christ’s cross above my writing.

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