Sometimes you have a story to tell that’s so clear in your mind, but when you sit down to write, your hand and thoughts freeze. How to tell it? Where to start? How to end?
If you’ve been wanting to do more storytelling in your writing, but find yourself stopped by confusion, procrastination or perfectionism, I invite you to join me for this online workshop.
In Build Your Memoir Muscle, you’ll learn and practice tools that will make personal storytelling more accessible—and fun. You’ll explore the “golden thread” of meaning through your life, discover new entry points to your story, and sharpen your own unique writer’s lens. And we’ll create a safe container in which you’ll also be able to share your writing aloud, if you desire.
It’s happening on Zoom from 10-2 on Saturday, January 29th. Offered through Mount Hood Community College—the fee is $45 and there’s a registration link below.
Feedback from the last MHCC memoir workshop: “
What a day! A nondescript classroom filled with delightful and enriching discoveries; all wrapped in such thoughtful and knowledgeable teaching. I feel more confident about my own writing, glad to have heard fellow students share their stories, and grateful for the gifts you bestowed.”
Winter writing on a Friday morning. What would happen if you slowed down for just 5 minutes—and just listened. And then wrote what you heard? Not trying to create something great or convince anyone to buy anything. What if you just listened for the words that are right below the surface? They’re there. And they’re waiting for you.
What you have learned so completely matters. What you keep dreaming about matters. The times you have soared matter. The times that have brought you to your knees matter. The lens through which you are seeing the world right now—the thought that keeps circling, the idea that keeps grabbing your attention—matters. And it is medicine for the rest of us.
I once imagined that if I could just sit with someone who was yearning to write a book—not just any book, but a really beautiful book—without the constraints of time or home or office, together we could dream that book into being.
Surrounded by nature and nourished with good food, we could spend a day exploring all the wisdom they’ve been gathering and wanting to express, look at how they are designed to share their message, and create a container unique to them.
We could then map the way, step by step, from that idea straight on through to a finished book. Long scattered thoughts would connect and that book would begin to be born.
When they sat down to write and stepped into the wilderness of confusion, procrastination or overwhelm, that map would be their guide.
So, several years ago, I began offering Book Mapping Days, and they have allowed all that to happen. In Covid times, they’ve happened on Zoom–and I’ve really missed the spaciousness and magic of being together in person.
This week I was able to create a socially-distanced-in-person day in a beautiful little cabin on Mount Hood. We mapped out a plan and it was wonderful to see all the elements working together again.
What could happen if you gave your book idea these things?
After months of pandemic-focus on things that are most necessary, it felt good to pare down even more. One pants, one shirt, one jacket, one hat, one book, just enough food, a stove, a sleeping bag.
Because the less we have, the farther we go and the more we notice. There’s a spontaneous swim at 8,500 feet. Morning oatmeal above timberline. Explosions of glacier lily and paintbrush. Wild windy nights, yellow moon illuminating pink heather. Elk tracks criss-crossing the snowpack.
The wonders that happen when we remember to pack light. (Especially when it comes to writing.)
The remaining blackberries are raisinlike. Shriveled. Birds have picked over them, leaving them to winter’s dormant dream. * And this is how it always seems to go for blackberries. I’ve got to assume they are ok with it. They likely don’t yearn to be plucked and devoured in the warm sun, shared in pies, or sprinkled on your late night bowl of ice cream. * But you. You human. You do not do as well when your own fruit dies on the vine. When what you so desperately desire to share shivers away, unheard, unseen, unharvested. Unoffered. * I walk past this patch of berries every day, all year long. They remind me so much of our human urge to create. There’s that initial germination of an idea. Then the focused sun of our attention ripens it til it glistens with juicy fullness. The moment that stirs us to offer. To extend our hand. To raise our voice. To hit “send.” Then that sweet instant in which it is consumed. * Then, there are the other times. I know these well. The times when I’ve held that nearly ripe fruit so close to my heart and not let it go. When I haven’t extended my own berries to one who might be hungry. When I waited… til I was clearer, better, stronger–different. The moment of offering passes by. And to hold onto what are now wizened, wrinkled berries just seems overprotective and sad. So I drop them and pretend they were no big deal anyway. They sink back into the earth. * Every single one of these dried-up berries I’m looking at today was such an offering that no human, bird nor bear accepted. And that is fine. * But what about your fruit? * My wish for you is that the moment you sense its ripening—the moment the sun is high and the message is full—you breathe in courage. And breathe in awareness that offering it to someone is the PURPOSE of your fruit. THIS is the reason you imagined the fruit in the first place. To nourish or, maybe, delight others. * * May you let it be easier.
May you reach out your hand and say, “Here’s a berry. Please take it if you like.”
