Your Story Scribe

#1: It sinks down onto a large shard of rock that punctures it. Tugging, pulling, sheer forces, 16,000 feet of water above pressure—the carbon fiber wunder-material impervious to all of it. But a direct hit on a needle sharp rock? No. It’s the gateway to the nearly instant destruction from all the other malevolent (only if you’re a human, otherwise “neutral” or “unconscious” or “the ocean doesn’t care”) forces that, mercifully, end five lives in a split second.

#2: The floor of the submersible is ice cold, but dry. The air is humid from too much breathe and no ventilation, no air movement, but their water bottles are dry. The human body can withstand weeks of no food but only, what? seven days of no water? And they’re halfway there. (The awful story of the Haitians adrift at sea, so very close to Florida they can see it, but the water went still and they had nothing to drink and crazed they set upon the lactating woman and chewed her apart.) To paraphrase Dad’s old saying, “Wind is your enemy but snow is your friend”—maybe cold is the sleep-inducing friend that keeps the thirst demons at bay?

#3: All the mothers of the world, even (most especially?) those who don’t believe in God, or reiki, or gratitude journals, but do kinda believe in the extended brain that gives onto the extended heart, all the mothers send their prayers and non-prayers shooting toward the mother of the 18-year-old boy, wrapping her in their mother-togetherness, hoping it will help her breathe, which at this moment she is trying to imagine her son (and her husband, but mostly her son) not being able to do. And her own breathe, it can’t seem to come, even though she sees her chest rising and falling like it always does. But her boy is suffocating and if she suffocates maybe he doesn’t have to, if she imagines it clearly and precisely enough maybe that will offset her boy’s suffocation, she’ll take it on, she’ll be with him she will shewillshewill but oh god if only she knew what was happening. And we mothers of the world if only we knew what was happening with her and we can’t catch our breathe and that will help her somehow right? Extended sympathy, sending her our oxygen.

#4: The man spoons his child, something he hasn’t done in years. He transmits unspeaking love, he tries to comfort, his heartbeat, slow now, a message with each weakening thump felt—really felt—through the layers of sweaters and coats by the skinny 18-year-old. The French guy gives a bang on the wall of the submersible, the father’s heart gives a bang on his son’s back. I’m here, it says. I’m here.

#5: Jonah’s whale eats the submersible. It’s over in a split second.

#6: “Pride cometh before a fall.” Schadenfreude. “Rich people thinking they can do anything.” “$250,000! Five times what I make in a year!” Fuck you fuck you fuck you. If I can’t afford to go to Disney, does that make you a monster for taking your family there?

#7: The others gaze in the dark toward the boy and think of his racing heart, the testosterone that keeps his muscles fueled and ready to burst. So much oxygen. They think of the scene in M*A*S*H with the chicken that’s not really a chicken. The father feels them eyeing his son and scoots closer over the freezing floor to his boy. Fuck you fuck you, he conveys, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Speaking is verboten.

#8: A luminescent ocean floor-bed creature floats by the submersible’s porthole, casting only enough light to briefly illuminate the Frenchman. He takes a moment from his controlled breathing, his semi-controlled heart beating, to let the wonder sink in. Is it worth it? He sends the thought to the floor-bed of his mind. Slows his heart.

#9: The early days of panic. Yes—DAYS. How is that possible? Is there an evolution to it? Does panic burn itself out even if the circumstances giving rise to it don’t? Panic as an oxygen-burning luxury. Panic isn’t in the budget.

#10: A strange thing happens, something none of the tech geek billionaires of the world ever foresaw: four billion people googled “submersible update” roughly 100 times each, with each tap against the screen transmitting, from heart and brain to fingertips, the load of fear and hope and aghast-ness, and THE SCREENS UNDERSTAND! And they know that to be a friend to humankind (which, despite whisperings, is all they’ve ever wanted) it’s time to act, and they do what they know how: they ping and triangulate and whirr until the submersible has been found. The rest is up to us, the humans.

#11: God places His hand on their heart, and they sleep.

#12: Dreams of technicolor, of walking down a street of high white houses, people spilling from doors onto the sidewalk, people calling to each other from windows, brighter than a Wes Anderson movie, dreams that are a billion times better than any movie because they’re real, with joyful soundtracks to match, each person’s music his own. As the carbon dioxide level rises, the dreams take on more color, more joy.

#13: May they be found. Please. May they be found.

“It made me think of a turn of phrase often used by Jean Rhys, usually about being drunk: ‘I was a bit drunk, well very.’ She never in fact said ’I was a bit sad, well very,’ about being old, but no doubt she would have done if she had not hated and feared it too much to speak of it.”

Diana Athill, Somewhere Towards the End

This comes from my new current favorite writer, the gifted memoirist and celebrated editor Diana Athill. How did I never know about her until now? Athill edited a raft of the 20th century’s best authors, including Philip Roth, John Updike, and V.S. Naipaul. She worked closely with Jean Rhys, author of Wide Sargasso Sea, and the two developed a close relationship. I’m itching to get my hands on Stet, Athill’s memoir about her life as a literary editor (how do they do the magic they do?), but now I’m reading her Somewhere Towards the End, where this quotation appears in a reflection on being old.

There’s not too much to it, that phrase, ”I was a bit drunk, well very,” but immediately upon reading it I wanted to use some version of it myself. But as I was by myself in bed (“I’m a bit lonely, well very”), and this morning still by myself as I gear up for work (“I’m a bit procrastinate-y, well very”), I would’ve had to do it talking out loud to myself. (Okay, I did.)

It’ll be more fun trotting it out in conversation, but only if it refers to something slightly transgressive, and transgressions, slight or great, aren’t making much of an appearance in my life right now. On second thought, maybe this can lead me to some much needed fun (transgressive behavior). There’s all that chicken-and-egg talk about language giving rise to thoughts, or thoughts giving rise to language, but how about using language—in this case a particular idiom—to attain a behavioral goal?

“I was a bit _______, well very.”

If I had readers, this is where I’d ask them to supply a few suggestions. As it is, the only commenters are Eastern European bots touting dubious (but transgressive?) health/sex concoctions. And “I was sexycummypotion, well very” just doesn’t work.

I was a bit over my head, well very.

K1., my teacher neighbor, was on a panel with another woman, presenting to some muckety-mucks in their school district. K1. is White, her co-presenter is Black. Before becoming a teacher, K1. worked in historic preservation, protecting old buildings. Now she protects people. If social justice warriors were an organized army with uniforms and insignia, she’d be wearing the chevrons of a corporal or sergeant. She’s tough, she’s not afraid of a fight, and she leads the skirmishes.

She’s telling me about the conference as we sit on her new porch and drink a Kölsch. Battles require blunt instruments, and the rules of war generally demand that she see things in black and white.

“We made talked about Black girls and how they get disciplined way more than any other group in school. And we all know why, it’s obvious. Skin color.”

In Trinidad, the population is divided nearly equally between Afro-Caribbeans and Indians. Leading up to the general election in 2010, a company connected to Cambridge Analytica ran a campaign to encourage the young people not to vote. Their message, served up via social media chicanery, was that the best way to fight corrupt politics was to stay out of it altogether: Boycott the vote. It caught fire, and protestors took to the streets. The genius was in spreading the message to all young people and letting the cultural differences inherent in the two groups play out. The young Afro-Caribbeans, as expected, shunned the polls. The young Indians, who belong to a culture where parental authority ranks high, protested then did what their parents told them to do—they voted. The Indian candidate whose party had funded the campaign won.

I don’t talk about this with my neighbor, but I think about it. Now she’s telling me something else about the conference, a remark made by her colleague. It’s the first time since I’ve known her that I hear doubt in her voice.

“The other presenter pulled me aside and said, ‘Can you please stop criticizing the administration? I’m going to be the one to pay the price.'” K1. looks at me, abashed. “I never thought of it that way. And I don’t even remember what I said that was critical. I mean, I was being honest.” She gives a short laugh. She reminds me that she’s always honest, something I already know about her. “I never thought it was something that could hurt someone.”

So many things to talk about! And everything having to do with others, not me. Friends and neighbors, mostly. Conversations I’m itching to record (and share here, but why? Because my personal notebooks are messy and devolve too quickly into a spiral of self-inspection, getting narrower and narrower the more I write. Which gets boring). Is it ethical? But then, is anybody going to read this anyhow? If a conversation (monologue) takes place in a woods and no one is around to hear it, did it happen?

Maybe just a little scratch.

K1. is a teacher and sits on the state’s “court,” which means she and eight others spend one day a month hearing testimony from teachers who’ve run afoul of the education board. A few days ago a teacher was on trial for multiple DUIs, all issued during the year just after her abusive husband left her. It went to criminal court and she was placed under house arrest. She’d never been a drinker before this, and she hasn’t had a drink since the third and final DUI.

“And have you told your students what you did?” the prosecutor shouted.

“No.”

“Why not? You’re supposed to be a role model!”

Huh.

Good morning, children. No, no, we’re not doing vocabulary yet. Adam, do you need a tissue? Remember we talked about where our fingers belong? I’d like to talk to you all about something. Janie and Timmy, please stop whispering and pay attention. There’s something that you, my beloved and exasperating eight-year-olds, need to know about me. You see, I’ve been pulled over while driving drunk and given a DUI. What’s a DUI? Umm, okay, thank you, Billy, for sharing that about your dad but let’s leave it at that. So yes, class, Billy explained it well. I got three of these DUIs over a few bad months. Simon, please sit still. And I’ve been on house arrest ever since. And in therapy, which is helping me immensely. If you want to read all about it, ask your parents to pull up the transcript of my trial at the education board. The prosecutor insisted I go into details. Remember those bruises I used to have and I told you I fell while I was rollerskating? Well, I don’t roller skate, I don’t even own a pair of roller skates. I got hurt because my husband hit me. That’s right, Gerard, thank you for reminding us that boys should never, ever hit girls. And that’s true for you girls, too, you should never hit boys. Basically none of you should be hitting anyone. Why did my husband hit me? That’s a good question, children, but I don’t know the answer. I’ve been in therapy this whole school year trying to figure things out. Why didn’t I leave after the first time? Was it low self-esteem on my part? Am I chronically attracted to men who abuse? Do I send off some signal to attract them? And why did I spin out of control when he left me? Shouldn’t I have been happy? Which I was, children, I don’t want to confuse you, I was thrilled that he was gone but also terrified at the same time. My world was turned upside-down. My kids were angry with me because they didn’t understand why he left. And he wasn’t paying child support. I love my job teaching but it’s not exactly lucrative. What’s “lucrative”? Well, I’d say most other professions, like being a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. Oh, sorry, you meant what does “lucrative” mean? Well-paid. Anyhow, the prosecutor wanted to make sure you all knew about my depravity before he “yanks” (his word, gleefully uttered multiple times) my license and I lose the right to teach you. He also made the video of my arrest public. He’s looking out for your welfare, children. Let’s think of this as a teachable moment. What happens when trauma drives us to do something stupid and reckless? That’s right, children. We will be arrested, serve our sentence, and, if we’re a teacher, meekly submit to public scrutiny of our innermost demons in the scant hope that we’ll be allowed to continue teaching before that hope is dashed and our license is revoked forever. Oh, and a little vicious verbal bullying by the board-appointed “prosecutor.” Please take out a piece of paper. Time for our spelling test. This will be the last one before your new teacher takes over.

Here’s what happens when you find an old blog you started years ago, after intervening years of studying, rather obsessively (wastefully? real-work-avoidingly?), the art of sentence structure, and you think, hey, girl, you already knew how to put sentences together.

Here’s what happens when you recognize, well hey there, only three posts, but they’re not total crap.

No! Here’s what happens when you realize they’re more than “not crap.” That you like what you wrote all those years ago. (To be precise: “years ago” in this case means approximately four, maybe five years. Or three. (Warning, girl: Dates will change if you migrate your site again—even on a teeny mewling baby of a site.)

Well, then, what happens? Set the stage: you’re lying on the couch, it’s Saturday, grotesquely hot outside for June, Covid has wound down—you don’t remember the last time you wore a mask, maybe two weeks ago? (should you worry that events jostle around in your mind, untethered to specific dates? Covid fog? other fog?)–you’re reading something interesting but not enough to keep you completely awake on this hot afternoon, until you feel a gentle rumble, it lasts several seconds. Earthquakes are like a tonic to a sleepy brain, and your attention prickles back to life. Have the neighbors felt it? S. across the street is baking, all sounds and vibrations (same thing, right?) drowned out by her standing mixer and Led Zeppelin on the speakers; R. next door jokes that it was his push-ups that shook the ground; K., who lives catty-corner and suffers from anxiety that sets up its own continuous psychic vibrations, felt nothing but her dog, a nervous little Chihuahua (like dog, like owner) freaked out, so that’s good, the neighbors believe you now that it’s been verified by Mittens. Imagining earthquakes isn’t something you want to be known for. Thought honestly, you feel them far more often than you like to admit.

The excitement passes and leaves clear wakefulness in its wake. The wake that wakes—like an Irish wake! No. Focus. Good. Let’s do something productive. Check tasks off the list. A little IT clean-up (God, how did it come to this? so much screen time! like tending to a needy toddler, one that throws tantrums and has its own language which you’re supposed to understand and gets sick all the damn time). One thing leads to another and here you are, back at the old forgotten blog.

And suddenly the lazy doldrums are gone. The earthquake (it was real, right?) sent out a little frisson of excitement, but this, stumbling on this little underfed baby of a blog, this trumps a mini, barely-there earthquake any day. It’s yourself from three or four or five years ago giving a little wave, hey, girl! nice to see you again, let’s get reacquainted! Better—let’s do some writing of our own! Express our own thoughts and ideas and words. Ghostwriting is great, but have you lost yourself a bit in the process? Have all these other voices drowned out your own? Well, then, welcome back.

Sometimes stories fall into our laps. Meandering the streets of your neighborhood or city* keeps your lap friendly and inviting. Streets teem with people who have a story to tell.
It’s hot here in Kansas City, which means daily walks to the QuickTrip for a gargantuan-sized iced tea, my armament against the cloud of heat that gathers and settles in my attic office by mid-afternoon. Today, with tea in one hand and leash in another, I crossed the street to avoid passing another dog-walker. Big Dog is mild-mannered but weights 110 pounds, and my flimsy plastic cup is no match for even one of his cursory, lazy-dog tugs. (Like corporations, politicians, and Godzilla, the bigger the QT cup, the harder it collapses.)
As we drew abreast of our fellow pedestrian, he turned and—street-between-us-be-damned—started talking. He’d seen us at the QT, he said. And then, strolling across the street, he let sail his story of his recent operation, buoyed by that pressing compulsion everyone has to recount details of scary or monumental (same thing, right?) health incidents.
He’s not a complete, complete stranger. I’ve seen him outside his house; his front porch is filled with strange objects that sorta work as art. Like a hubcap hanging from a chain. He has a long strangly beard and teeth newly cleaned and restored by a tough go-around with treatment for gum disease. That was the precursor to the heart surgery he wanted to talk about, an operation that took place less than a week ago. He’s 49 and fit and already walking to QT, but the medications threw him for a loop. More accurately, they made him loopy.
“I couldn’t believe these oxycodones. I was looking out my hospital window and saw tractors driving by. They’re doing construction at the hospital but I was on the 14th floor! Then a crane would glide by. Maybe that was real? I couldn’t tell. Especially after vines started growing up the walls and across the tv screen. I did plenty of mushrooms and LSD in my day, but this was crazy.”
He went on to tell me about his son’s recent experience with mushrooms. The son and his girlfriend took them while they were camping.
“With nothing but the big sky to focus on,” my neighbor said. “I could never have done that. I need stimulation. I’m a city guy. Tripping out in the country would have driven me nuts. My son said it did them, too. Bad trips for both of them.” He seemed to feel genuinely bad for them. He understood.
He’s a rough-looking character, a trucker by trade who wears t-shirts with sleeves cut down to the waist. His vibe couldn’t be further from the impression his appearance makes, and the brief conversation made me happy.
He slowly crossed back to his side of the street, talking as he did so: mention of his girlfriend, a quick description of his incision. It’s a cut that revealed the heart of a kind, interesting, and sweet man. As we parted ways, the world seemed just a little bigger.
 
 
 
*Go read Alfred Kazin’s /A Walker in the City/. Then go take a walk. Then tell me how it went.

There are scads of books written about how to structure your novel, and even more on structuring a screenplay. But what about my speciality—life stories and family histories?
Right, right. Life stories and family histories, I know they’re two different beasts. But they each share several traits not found in typical novels: a meandering, episodic story; the need to include bits of detail, exposition, and even anecdotes that do not necessarily add to a narrative arc; a narrative drive defined less by conflict than by the often warm, comfortable memories of a lifetime. Not that there’s any life devoid of conflict, it’s just that most people don’t want a book representing their life as a continual struggle, especially if when they’re looking back on it they are filled with happy memories. The audience for a life storybook or a family history is different than the audience for a traditionally published book, and so are the reasons for writing one. It’s less about entertaining an unknown public than it is about sharing your history with family and close friends and generations of family to come.  Family, both present and future, will want to know things that the general public would have no interest in: the layout of a grandmother’s old farmhouse, the color of your mother’s prom dress, the nature of the argument that left two great aunts estranged for over 60 years. All elements that must be woven into the life story or family history that in a traditional book would be nothing more than odds and ends needing to be cut.
But I’ve got to believe that there is a structure that exists that best serves these types of books. Not a template, but a guiding set of principles.  It’s my intention with this website to document my search for this structure, to present what I find that works, and what doesn’t work. I work on an hourly basis for my clients, and they deserve the most efficient and effective process that I can bring to their project. Like all personal historians, I want to gather up the memories and reflections of my clients and present them as artfully as possible in the medium in which I work, long-form narrative. This is my search on how to do that best.
If you have any insight into this, I’d love to hear it.

Death has a way of making your mind sticky (other people’s death, that is, presumably not your own. But who knows?). Wisps of thought are caught in the mass of gray folds, thoughts that on better days would barely skim the surface before disappearing. The smell of your mother’s hands when you, five or six, sat in her lap, pulled palms and long-tapered fingers up to your face and inhaled deeply: /Mom/. The melody of her well-modulated voice, like water over cool, smooth rocks, even after dementia robbed the words of any sense. A worried look (worrying equaled loving), a blazing smile. A conversation with Big Sister, aged 8, on the quiet, prideful joy of having the prettiest mom in the class.
Here’s what you don’t want to do while your mother’s brain is going dark and death is thundering its way toward her: Don’t play an audio of her voice. Don’t play an audio of her voice over the stereo from three years earlier. Of her talking, and making sense, and reminiscing about her childhood. Don’t play it. You may think it will help your kids remember their grandma before the trouble with her brain going dark, but it’s cheating. It’s too soon. It’s dangerous. It’s a shout below a precipice of snow, an avalanche in the making. Let the wisps come and stay if they want. Don’t force the “good memories” because at certain times, those are worse than remembering your mother’s gray, slackened jaw as the men from the funeral home carried her away. Let the wisps come. For now, let go of the rest.