Later this morning, I’m going to take a walk in the Garden of Angels. At long last, I’m laying to rest an unspeakable tragedy, a family secret that’s haunted me for decades. No doubt, this will be an intensely emotional day.
Seen through a purely craft-oriented lens, today will tie beautiful satin ribbons of closure around one of my main plotlines. It’s a healing salve for the horrific wounds my characters have suffered.
But I’m writing a memoir, not fiction, so it’s impossible for me to view this experience from such an objective vantage point. It’s is a first-draft passage from my personal narrative, authentic and unfinished.
I’ve been awake for several hours, thinking about this long-imagined day. And as the darkness finally gives way to dawn, I’m realizing just how impossible it really is to “write what you know,” when each day offers unexpected blessings and unimagined possibilities, this journey among them. I’m flying by the seat of my pants, even though I’m as familiar as any writer could possibly be with the main character and her unfolding story.