Writing About Family: Truth and Consequences

 

 

Storytelling has existed since the beginning of humankind. Our stories are the connective tissue that holds humanity and possibly even the universe together. Poet and activist Muriel Rukeyser famously wrote, “The Universe is made of stories, not of atoms." Every person on this planet has a unique life path and therefore an interesting tale to share, and yet so many of us struggle with whether or not we have the right to tell our stories. We are silenced by the fear upsetting others, mainly our family, in writing our truth.

Who Owns The Truth?

I begin my book Fire Season with this note:

“In my extended family, arguing over versions of our history is practically a blood sport. My relatives will wrestle each other to the mat about the way it all went down. In reality, there is no such thing as absolute truth, only our personal interpretations of it. Each of us sees life through our own unique lens. The best way I’ve ever heard it described was by a woman I met in a writing group. She said as her mother lay dying, she and her sister sat on either side of the hospital bed, holding their mother’s hands. At the moment of her passing, the sisters spoke simultaneously. One said, “She’s gone cold!” The other said, “She’s still warm.” And both statements were true to the women who made them.

I do my best, as a flawed and complex person myself, to write with compassion and understanding. There are no heroes or villains in my books, only imperfect humans doing the best they can. Mine is not the elusive absolute truth, but it is my truth.”

The bottom line is that you own the rights to your life story. No one else can shape it, or write it like you can. Your story is the only thing of true value that you own-- the one thing that can’t be taken from you. Cherish that.

Write Honest Characters:

In memoir writing, it’s important to write with objectivity. If I portray myself as the hero and someone who wronged me as a one-dimensional Hitler, the reader is not going to believe it, and the story won’t work.  Even Hitler had a dog he loved. That’s the interesting part. Every character is rich with contradictions. Our job is to find those contradictions and flesh them out -- to portray each character as a whole human being. Fiction writers climb inside each character, listen to their voices. Every character comes to a scene with his or her own agenda. Even in memoir, we need to get behind the agenda of each character. Let’s say you’re writing about your mother (and honestly, who isn’t?). The message of the book can’t be “My agenda was to be happy but my mother’s agenda was to make me miserable.” From your perspective, that may be true, but certainly that was not your mother’s sole agenda in life. A powerful writing exercise is to try writing the scene from your mother’s point of view, in her voice, then rewrite the scene, from your perspective but with deeper honesty and a fuller understanding of each character.

Fear of Abandonment

Writing the truth is both terrifying and liberating – for you, and for the reader. The fact is that no matter how careful you are, you’re going to hit a nerve and upset some people, because, as Pema Chodron says, fear is a reaction to moving closer to the truth. Being a writer means telling the truth, facing the fear of abandonment, and writing through it. Initially, when first putting pen to page, write like an orphan. Forget your family. Dump it all out of your head, every single word, thought, and feeling. And then take some time away from the manuscript.  When you return to reread and edit, keep only what is absolutely necessary to the arc of the story. Delete everything else. Find compassion for every character. Soften the edges of your anger. When you finally hit send on the manuscript, keep in mind that it’s called a book “release.”  Release it. Your work now belongs to the world and the readers to judge, to love or to hate. For my own moments of panic, I have these words from author Steve Almond above my desk:  

 

 

Be proud of yourself for releasing a complete work of your unbearable feelings, and let the world do with it as they will. 

 

** An excerpt of this article was published in Writer's Digest: http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/3-rules-on-writing-about-your-family

 

 

Things Just Got Real...

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG.
ADVANCE READER COPIES JUST ARRIVED.
Troy asked me, "How do you feel?"
Hmmm...How do I feel?
Excited.
Nervous.
Relieved.
And maybe just a little bit like puking.

Years of soul searching, hard work, ass-in-chair 24/7 writing days...and now it's finally about to be real. 

How do I feel?
Like I've grown up a lot. Realized the patterns of my own making, learned how to break free of some of them. I grew so much through writing my essay in Dancing at the Shame Prom, and in co-editing it, and in the process of collaboration with Amy Ferris. Giving birth to that book full of amazing stories from such powerful women was huge and life changing.

Now, I feel like I am about to embark on a scary new adventure. A rollercoaster ride. And I am not a fan of roller coasters. 

And I feel like I want so much for every one of you to write your stories, even if it scares you. Especially if it scares you.  

I want to hear your stories. 
I want to share with you my story. 
Because I believe we can all help each other to heal on this journey home. 


***Fire Season will be released on April 14th, but you can pre-order at Barnes and Noble, Indiebound or any major bookseller, and here on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Fire-Season-Journey-Ruin-Redemption/dp/1631529749

What We Can Learn From a 7 Year Old

Sophia paints Evan's face

Yesterday, my neighbor Lorie pulled me aside and asked if my son Evan had told me about the bench.

“No, what bench?” I asked.

“The bench in front of my house that he broke,” she replied.

Uh-oh, I thought.

She continued, “Evan knocked on my door and he said ‘Miss Lorie,  I was riding my scooter too fast and I couldn’t stop in time,” He pointed to the bench in front of her house, “and …I crashed into your bench and broke it. I’m sorry.”

At that moment, she said, his little friend Sophia piped in, “That’s called integrity.”

Lorie was so tickled by the two of them that she wasn't mad at all.

Today, Troy took Evan next door to teach him how to fix a bench.

Integrity is something taught in Evan and Sophia’s second grade class, and yet it’s rare to find that quality in adults.

Ghandi famously said, “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” If that is true, then integrity equals happiness.

Living without integrity may very well be that the reason happiness eludes so many of us.

Are you living with integrity?

Do you take responsibility for your own actions?

Are you impeccable with your word, both to others and yourself?

Do you make promises (to yourself and others) that you don’t keep?

Do you gossip and talk bad about others (but smile to their face)?

Do you blame others for your unhappiness?

If you want to be happy, try taking a lesson from a seven year old. As Sophia said- it’s called integrity.

So simple...it's child's play.

Evan and Sophia with Snowcone tongues

Fraud Protection

Last week, as I was the visiting writer for a UCLA online writing class, one student told me how difficult it was for her to let others read her work, and asked me how to get over the fear of judgment. This is what I love about doing this class- writers ask such probing questions, forcing me to face my own issues, and this is certainly one of them.

So many of us live with that sneaky dragon that lurks behind the subconscious, whispering that we’re not good enough, that if we take a chance and put ourselves out there, we’ll be exposed as a fraud.

Boy oh boy, do I know that dragon. I can get on stage in sequins and sing to a crowd of hundreds, but my voice shakes with fear reading one of my personal essays in front of a few. Speaking our deepest truth is a scary prospect. But here is what I told her:

Through my experience both as a performer and a writer, I've learned a lot about this "fraud" issue. What I know for sure: I am only fearful of being exposed when I am holding in a secret. I cannot tell you what a relief it has been to tell the truth about myself, who I am, where I come from. In my performing career, I have been around a lot of celebrities and "important" people all my life. I thought I'd die if they all knew that I grew up a welfare kid, daughter of a convict. But what I've found is that most people (the right people for me) actually have embraced me and become closer to me since I began living in my truth.

I would say that most of us, on some level, feel like a fraud about to be exposed. I once saw Johnny Mathis perform a flawless show. I was starstruck. Afterward, I went backstage, so excited to meet this pop icon.

"You were wonderful," I said.

He looked at me worried, "Really? Did you really think I was okay?"

Suddenly I found myself in a completely surreal moment, pep-talking Johnny Mathis, ensuring this legend that he was good enough. That's when I knew - we all suffer from the same affliction.

For years, as a singer, I suffered terrible stagefright until one day I realized...wait a minute. No one came to this event to sit in judgment of me as a singer. They came to have a good time and forget about their troubles for a night. When I stop thinking about myself, and come from a place of giving or service, I sing with joy. 

The same goes with writing. People read stories to escape, or to feel connected, not to scrutinize. Every human being has a story. Our past societies are built on storytelling (The Bible for one). I am just a human telling my unique story like no one else can. Why should I fear anyone’s judgment?

I have learned that when I am living in truth, fear evaporates. When I own my story, the good, the bad and the ugly, my faults, my mistakes, my fallibility as a human, there is no judgment to fear.

I think ultimately what we fear is not judgment, but the truth that may come in that judgment - a truth we aren’t ready to face. My experience has been that facing it is much easier than running from it, and requires much less energy than suppressing it.

My final advice to the student: The only true fraud protection we have is to live authentically. Tell your truth, live in your truth, and watch what happens...

Grace in Bethlehem

December brings my birthday and the holidays. As a child, it was my favorite time of year, but these last ten years, being estranged from my family, I tend to get the blues. My sweet husband hangs Christmas lights and wears a Santa hat to cheer me up, and I do my best…focusing on the kids, playing Christmas music, making ornaments, baking cookies, watching my favorite holiday movies.

This year on my birthday, I would receive the greatest and most unexpected of gifts. I had just gotten back from a day of volunteer work, wrapping gifts for needy families. (I’ve found that the best cure for the blues is to get out of my own head and help someone else, so you see, I did this for completely selfish reasons.) I was unwinding after a long day when my brother Ted, who had flown in from Seattle, came walking up my stairs with a big red bow wrapped around him. My best friends Erin and Beth had picked him up from the airport and smuggled him in. Ted and I only found each other six years ago. We had lived a whole lifetime apart, and this was the first time I’d ever spent my birthday with him. We had dinner with my children that night, all of us together, laughing, celebrating. Six years ago, this was a scene I never could have imagined.

Several days later I was fortunate to tag along with Troy for a leg of the Wilson Phillips tour that took us to Pennsylvania, where my angel-friend and writing partner Amy Ferris lives. With our deadline looming, it was a perfect opportunity for Amy and I to buckle down and get some work done on our book “Dancing At The Shame Prom”.

I had my sleeves rolled up, ready to work. But what I didn’t expect was for those five days to be so inspired and spirit-filled. Walking in the brisk cold through Bethlehem at Christmas time was magical. Each street was lined with historic brick buildings, cobblestone churches, and graveyards dating back to the 1700s. Vendors sold handmade wares in their tiny Christmas Village. At night, candles glowed in every window of every house. And Bethlehem is where Amy and I sat together in an ancient haunted hotel, by a roaring fire and a glittering fifteen-foot Christmas tree, reading these heart-stopping, beautiful, honest, raw essays sent by our brave writers.

When someone chooses to open their heart and let you in, it is nothing short of a miracle. That’s what each writer has done for this book, and soon we will be able to share them with you. I felt so blessed to be midwifing this project, to be trusted with these intimate, courageous, hope-filled stories. How perfect that this book should be birthed in Bethlehem, during a time of hope and lovingkindness, by the sparkle of holiday lights.

I know it wasn’t the actual Bethlehem - just an old abandoned steel town in Pennsylvania - but I felt something magic there. Maybe I’m making too much of the connection – but I don’t think so. A blessing is a blessing, no matter where you find it. I found mine in the arms of my brother, and my friends, dancing and laughing with Troy, holding hands with Amy. And I experienced my true Christmas miracle through a bevy of beautiful writers, in the heart of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

And the award goes to...

This morning Troy and I went to Evan’s school to watch him receive an award. I assumed it was something academic, as that’s Evan’s thing. He’s the kid that asks to do “extra” homework because it’s fun.  Instead, I was happy to find that he was given the “Character Trait Award” that read:

For Evan Dexter: In recognition of demonstrating HONESTY.

I can not tell you how my heart swelled with pride. In my twenty-six years of parenting, this has been the trait I’ve stressed most to my children. And really, based on my life’s work, could there be a better award for my kid?

Just this morning as I was packing his lunch, he stopped me from putting a sweet granola bar in his backpack. “Mommy, you said no sweets for the week because I said a bad word yesterday, remember?”

And a few days ago, he and Ben had their first scrape with “the law”. Yes, that’s right. Our little five and six year old hoodlums got into a world of trouble.

On Sunday, Erin, Beth, Troy and I had spent the afternoon playing baseball with our boys. Afterward, Evan went to Ben’s to play. When I later called to check in, Erin sounded upset. “We have a situation…” she said. Erin and Beth’s neighbor had come to warn them that vandals were running loose in the neighborhood, and had smashed out the window of their Lexus. No worries, he assured her, we’ve called the police and they’re on their way.

Erin thanked him and shut the door, when Beth said, “Uh…did you check with the boys? They’re in the back yard.”

It turns out, Evan and Ben were continuing to practice baseball by seeing how far they could throw big rocks. Over the fence.

Troy and I rushed over, and the four of us sat the boys down to have a talk. We made sure they understood the seriousness of throwing rocks, and that even though it was an accident, they would have to take responsibility and tell the police. Evan processed the situation, as he often does, by drawing it out on paper.

We walked the boys next door, and they apologized to the neighbors (for a second time. Beth had taken them over immediately when she first found out.) We made sure they saw the damage the rocks had caused. Then we waited for the police.

As the two officers strolled up in their intimidating uniforms, billy clubs and guns in hosters, the lead officer said, “Okay, who can explain what’s going on here?” and before any of us could get a word out, Evan stepped up and said, “Mr. Policeman, we did it!” Ben nodded his head, “Yeah, we did it.”

“Well, Thank you for being honest boys.”  The officer shook their hands.

Evan continued, “Me and Ben were throwing rocks over the fence but it was a accident and here’s my drawing.”

The officer took the drawing, looked closely at it, then back at Ben and Evan. He was silent for a moment. Here comes the big lecture…I thought. This is good.

“I’m going to have to arrest you two…” he broke into a smile, “for being ADORABLE!” He chuckled, “You two are the cutest kids I’ve ever seen!”

Beth and I stood behind the boys, frowning and shaking our heads. This was not the intimidating life lesson we’d hoped for.

“But throwing rocks is BAD, right Officer?” I added.

“Yes, don’t throw rocks anymore, boys, okay?” 

They nodded, jumping up and down with glee. The officer looked back to Beth and I smiling. “Seriously, those guys are so cute…”

Ben asked Evan, “What’s gonna happen now?”

“Don’t worry Ben, we’re not in trouble! He thinks we’re cute!”

Beth was immediately on it. “Hey- you still have to take responsibility for this.”

After the police left, we sat the boys down again and told them they’d have to do some extra chores to help pay for the TWO brand new Lexuses that were damaged. (We’re still waiting to hear back for insurance on that…dreading the answer.)

Evan was excited about it. “Can we make a chores chart? Can I pick up trash? And sweep?”

I’ve had my ups and downs, my failures as a person and a mom, but one thing I’m proud of is teaching my kids to be honest. The most trouble Taylor ever got into as a kid was for telling a lie. It was over a silly thing (brushing his teeth) but I treated it with huge seriousness. I told him - when you tell a lie, you break trust with people. Your friends and family won’t believe in your words anymore. I won’t get mad at you for making a mistake, but I will always get mad at you for lying. In our house, lying was the most serious offense of all. Taylor threw himself face down on his bed and sobbed his eyes out for twenty minutes. Cristen, who was then about twelve, went and sat beside him, rubbing his back.

“Why are you crying, boopy-nose?”

“I TOLD A LIE!” He sobbed into his pillow.

Today, my daughter Cristen tells it like it is. She stands in her truth, lives her life on her own terms and, believe me, she doesn’t hold anything back.

Taylor is living a life of integrity and responsibility, and passing it down to his own son.

And Evan has just passed his first big “life test”.

I know it was just a silly little school award today, but I took it as a huge sign from the Universe that we’re on track.

As I know all too well, being honest does not win you friends, rarely are you rewarded for it, and never are you “awarded”. The true reward is the self-trust and self-respect you gain.  Living with integrity brings an inner peace – and that is what I want my kids to have.

The award today? Just icing on that cake.

Being True to You

Ophelia's art poster: http://www.zazzle.com/to_thine_own_self_be_true_poster-228306749335934814

Yesterday I watched an online discussion between Martha Beck and Oprah, following Oprah’s life class entitled “The Truth Will Set You Free”. This of course was of interest to me as my life’s work is centered in this issue.

Martha Beck had a spiritual experience while undergoing a surgery, and it changed they way she lived. She had been touched by a divine love, and the only way she could come close to experiencing that feeling again was to live in absolute truth. The alternative became too painful. She could no longer say yes when she meant no, or do work she didn’t believe in, or be in a relationship based on false selves.

This was the part of the conversation that riveted me. She said that if you are in a relationship in which you can not truly be yourself- meaning you can’t say what you really think or feel for fear of the other person rejecting you- then you are presenting a “false self” to the relationship, and therefore it is a “false relationship”. I could instantly flash on several relationships in my life past and present that fit that bill. And it made me wonder…If I’m not being myself so I won’t lose the relationship, but it’s a false relationship, then what am I really losing?

I can recall countless work or family functions I’ve attended where everyone forces a smile while simmering with resentment underneath. Or times I’ve said yes when I really meant no. And this is what I think shame really is. It’s when your actions are not in alignment with your heart. Shame is born in the moment that you betray yourself.

And yet most of us live this way.

So why do we do this? Why would we ever live a life that is not true? Why do we betray ourselves? Why do we say one thing and do another?

What do we gain by living this way? And more importantly, what do we lose?

Blue Hawaii

I have been blue all week, a deep sadness welling up inside me at random moments. It has really caught me off guard. No surprise that I also lost my voice this week.

One of the triggers is that tomorrow is Grandparent’s day at Evan’s school. They had to write and talk about it all week, and tomorrow the kids’ grandparents are coming to class for a celebration. This upset me. What about all the little kids who will have no one there for them tomorrow, like my son? Troy’s parents are in New Mexico, and my Dad is in Texas, and then there’s my mother who lives only twenty minutes away but doesn’t know Evan at all.

And perhaps the true source of my sadness, I just found out, through the grapevine, that my mother is moving to Hawaii next week.

My mother and I have been estranged for ten years. The rift between us was not a result of some petty squabble. In my extended family, there has been sexual impropriety, drug use and abuse, and, on the women’s part, enabling and denial. I made the choice to break the silence, and therefore break the cycle. I was rewarded for my honesty by being outcast, and then blamed for breaking up the family.

We tried to set it right again. We went to therapy, but my mother quit. She said she couldn’t afford it (then went on vacation to Costa Rica, and remodeled her house). We tried without therapists. We met in a park a few years ago to talk things through. I brought Evan who was only two at the time. My mother’s anger took on a life of its own, like a feral cat backed into a corner, hissing and clawing, and all of it directed at me. And there was sweet little Evan, witnessing it all.

I made the choice to protect my own children from that toxicity. I know in my heart it was the right thing to do. But when Grandparent’s day rolls around, it still hurts.

I realized that what I am experiencing is mourning. I still held on to a thin thread of hope for my mother and I. They say times heals…I was waiting. I kept telling myself, any day now, something’s gonna shift. But it never did, and now that she’s leaving, the thread of hope was snipped for good.

The bridge between us was not only burned, it was blown to smithereens.  This is not something that could be fixed long distance over the phone, or without professional help.

So as my mother packs her things and prepares for her new life, I am mourning the death of hope, and of possibility that things could ever be different.

I’ll give Evan pictures of his grandparents to take to school tomorrow. He may grow up without grandparent’s at his birthday parties, recitals or school events, but there is certainly no shortage of love surrounding him. As long as we have love, we can get through anything.

As for my mother, I wish her peace in her heart, and a beautiful life in paradise.

As the sun sets on our relationship, I guess there’s nothing else to say for now but…

Aloha, Mom.

The Stories I Don't Tell

It’s funny that I’m co-editing a book on shame, because if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said I was a shameless woman. What I mean by that is I don’t have a lot of regret. I made some mistakes when I was young, but that’s what youth is for. I feel good about my life in general. And yet…

There were some things I just never talked about. That’s what interests me now: the things we don’t talk about. Shame is the part of your story that you don’t tell. You may not dwell on it, but it dwells in you.

For instance, all my life, I tried to push away from the truth of who I was and what I came from. In the Shame Prom, I write about the fact that I was an unwanted pregnancy, born to two juvenile delinquents. My father was in jail when I was born, and would end up spending my entire childhood in prison. My mother, a 16-year old rebel, became a single mom who worked nights in bars. We used food stamps to buy our groceries.

But I wanted to be a Brady Bunch kid. I was a cheerleader. I wore the right clothes. I got good grades. Not until the last several years, after I wrote my memoir, did I start talking about my history. In denying that part of my reality, I became a fractured woman plagued by anxiety attacks and fear. Once I finally claimed that part of my story, it no longer held power over me. It freed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and opened new doors in my life.

I remember when Rob Lowe’s big sex tape scandal broke in the 90’s. Soon after, he was on Saturday Night Live, poking fun at himself over it. He never made excuses or tried to hide it. Suddenly, no one cared anymore. He claimed his shame, and it no longer had power over him. Look at him now- successful career, happy marriage and family. When you claim your truth, you take away the blackmailer’s power. YOU hold the power.

So that’s what this Shame Prom movement is all about. So far our Shame Prom writers have turned in gorgeous essays about the stories they never told:

Elizabeth Geitz, an Episcopal Priest and leader of her community, reveals her shame over her mother’s suicide

Kristine Van Raden comes to terms with the mother-guilt of her daughter’s eating disorder, and her daughter, Kate, writes a companion piece

Laurenne Sala struggles with her teenage shame over her gay dad

Julie Silver recounts the day she was banished from her loving community, and how she found redemption

Robyn Hatcher tells a fascinating story about carrying the shame of her race

Rachel Kramer Bussell, an erotica writer who would appear to be shameless, tells her  secret – she is a hoarder

If you think you don’t carry any shame, ask yourself…are their parts of my story I leave out? Parts of my history I’d rather not talk about?

There are for me.

Everyone knows I’m married to a wonderful man for 22 years, but few people know I had a previous failed marriage.

And no one, I mean NO ONE knows what I am about to reveal to you now, for it is perhaps my greatest shame ever.

In 1982, I voted for Reagan. If you defriend me on facebook right now, I’ll understand. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

So friends, this is what our mission is about, and Amy and I want you join us. Let’s get it all out, free ourselves, connect with each other, support each other, celebrate all we have survived and the strong women and men we are.

Let’s move from Shame-full to Shame-less.

The Crucifixion of James Frey

Painting by Ed Ruscha, for James Frey

Anyone who reads my blog knows that my life is all about telling the truth, that is – my personal truth. But who are we to define what another’s truth is? And what is truth in art?

I read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces shortly after it came out, and loved it. As a person with an addict father and brother, it opened my eyes and helped me to see things in a new way. I immediately sent the book to my father, and he too, was rocked to his foundation by it.

And then the big scandal hit. It seems Frey “embellished” details of his memoir.

Okay.

And...?

Did this change the experience I had reading the book? No. Did it change the fact that the book had enabled me to see addiction in a different way, and to have a better understanding of my father? No. I didn’t care whether Frey had spent three months or 3 minutes in prison. I didn’t care whether he had anesthesia at the dentist or not. The book was ground breaking and fresh and artistic. His voice was compelling and authentic. It moved me. It made me think. Isn’t that what a great book is supposed to do?

I, too, wrote a memoir. I spent 37 years trying to forget my past, and another eight in therapy and in writing groups, trying to remember it. And even though the book is written, I struggle with whether or not to publish it, because truth is a powerful blade, and you have to be careful how you wield it. And, as I know all too well, many people will challenge your truth. But memoir is not journalism. Memoir is your own personal story, as experienced through your own filters, as told by YOU. No one else can tell us what our truth is, or should be.

One friend, after reading my manuscript, had a hard time believing I could remember so much detail about my young life. As I told her, in memoir writing, you start from the deepest most searing memories, and you work from there. The moment that changed your life could have been one simple statement, or a memory that is a 20-second video clip in your head. But that does not a story make, and so we must paint in the rest of the picture. None of us have lived our lives carrying around a tape recorder, so you do your best to fill in the missing details. I kept journals all my life, which helped a lot. I also did genealogy research and interviewing family and google fact-checking on my own stories.

But in recreating the rest of it, you have to ask yourself, what is emotionally true to me in this scene? How did I feel? What colors did I see, what did the room smell like? When writing dialogue, you have to bring each character back to life in your head. How did Uncle Joe stand, speak, walk? What were sayings he always used? Would it be honest to say he would have used one of his famous “Uncle Joe-isms” in the scene?

All of my writing teachers over the years have told me to “write what is true”. But in memoir, some of the strokes are loose. One of my favorite essayists, Tony Earley, wrote a story about watching the moon landing in 1969. After it was published, a fact-checker rebuked him for saying it had been a full moon that night, because in fact, it had been a quarter moon. Does that mean Tony Earley is a liar, and everyone who read that piece should get their money back? No. It means that as a small child, the moon seemed so huge and unreachable as he looked up through his neighbor’s telescope, that his mind remembered it as big and round. Our memories do that - fill in the blanks. Each of us will tell the same story a different way. What is true for you may not be true for me, and there is no such thing as absolute truth anyway. So who are we to say what was emotionally true for Frey?

One of the things I found so exhilarating about A Million Little Pieces was Frey’s irreverent disregard for rules: He used no punctuation, capitalization or writing rules. He had no MFA. A copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style was certainly nowhere to be found in his writing lair. So why is it a shock to anyone that he paid no attention to “memoir writing rules” – and what are those, anyway? His book was his own piece of art- a world that Frey has often said he is more influenced by than the literary world. And so, he wrote his story in his own way. As Frey said on Oprah yesterday, Picasso’s “self-portrait” has him looking like a strange, blue, cockeyed monster, so does that mean he’s a liar and a fake? A Million Little Pieces is Frey’s self portrait, and maybe he is portraying himself as a strange, blue, cockeyed monster.

I find it ridiculous that the world went so crazy with judgment on Frey, including Oprah. I have to admit, I was disgusted watching her persecute him on national television in 2006. He didn’t deserve that. As a writer, I personally would never stretch the truth the way Frey did, but I’m not him. I write the way I write, and he writes the way he writes. He plays fast and loose with the rules, I don’t. So what. Either you like the book and it opens your eyes, or it doesn’t. Get over it and let Frey get back to using his voice his way.

I will agree that he and his publishers shouldn’t have called his book  “memoir”, because it casts doubt on the rest of us who are trying to write in that genre and be taken seriously. Maybe he could have done what Tony Earley did in his book Somehow Form A Family – which was to classify his book as “Stories That Are Mostly True”. Or, like a TV movie of the week, he could have said it was a story based on his own life experiences. That would have solved the problem. He initially shopped the book as a novel, and it didn’t sell. They asked him to publish it as memoir, and it was an off-the-charts success, inspiring people all over the world. So that was his deal with the Devil- letting the book be mis-categorized for the sake of getting it sold. But for this man to have been nailed to the cross and humiliated in front of the world, to the point where he had to move his family to another country to escape the finger pointing and threats, we have to ask ourselves not what is wrong with James Frey, but what is wrong with us?

Love and Letting Go

In the beginning...

It is a strange thing to love a child, for its the only relationship in which you can love someone fully, absolutely knowing that they will leave you.

In fact, every day they leave you a little bit more. The simple act of birth is their first push away into their own individuality. The baby whose eyes light up with wonder at the sight of your face soon becomes the toddler who says NO and tantrums against you. The five-year old who loved to cuddle and read stories with you will one day be the ten-year old who wants his space. The ten-year old who would still hold your hand if no one was looking will transform into a sullen, cynical teenaged alien from Mars who recoils from your touch. And then, just when they’re getting to be a little bit tolerable again, they leave home.

And through it all, we love them.

I’ve been through all the stages. Crying myself to sleep after driving my daughter to college, bittersweet tears watching my son become a man, get married and have a child of his own, and even now, at five-years old my youngest is flexing his newfound masculinity, preferring to spend his time karate chopping his imaginary enemies, rather than cuddling with mom. This morning, dropping him off at Kindergarten I reached out to kiss him goodbye but he was off and running toward his friends - he never even looked back. And that’s great, right? (sniff...sniff) It means he’s secure and confident. (sniff...sniff) And so today I have to let him go just a little more than yesterday.

It is only when I’ve resisted these changes in my heart that I’ve suffered. I’ve known all along that it was the right thing to back up and give my children the space to grow, but still I pined for the innocent days already gone, which passed too quickly while we were all busy having a life.

A couple years ago, I looked around my house filled with photos of my older children as babies, their huge saucer eyes peering out at me from the past, and a pang of sadness washed over me. I was longing for a time that no longer existed, and in doing so, I was not giving the present moment the appreciation it deserved.  My eldest babies had grown into beautiful and strong young adults: Cristen with her job in the music industry and world traveling, Taylor balancing gigs, his young family, and world traveling. I am so proud of the people they are today. And no, they no longer need me, or cry every time I leave the room like the good ole days, but they have rich, independent lives, and isn’t that what every parent wants for their child? (sniff...sniff)

So I swept the house of past memories, and put them in albums. I kept a few up, after all nostalgia does have its place, as long as you don’t live in that place. I hung new pictures reflecting who we all are today. My daughter in Paris, my son Taylor at the helm of a boat, embracing his wife, and of course current pictures of Evan and the grandbaby. Most importantly, I left room on the walls for new memories to be made.

Holding on to the past didn’t serve me, or my children. It’s like the sad feeling you get when you see someone still sporting a mullet. You have to honor that time for what it was, but embrace today.

Today I try to gather my family around a table for dinner at least a few times a month. It is such a joy to see the grown ones interact with their little brother and the new baby. It fills my heart with pride when Cristen, Aya or Taylor offer to cook for everyone, taking their turns being at the helm in the family. I am happy to see them shining in their new roles.

What I’ve learned about letting go is that I didn’t lose anything, though it may feel that way sometimes. In fact I’ve gained more than I could have imagined. Now I have a beautiful daughter-in-law who I love, and a precious grandson. Given the space to grow, love transformed into something new and miraculous.

One thing I know for sure - when I put my trust in love, it never disappoints. 

Cristen holds her brother's son... *sigh*

Taylor and his beautiful wife Aya

Aya has morning cuddle time with Evan and Ayumu

Sissy and Tay-Tay with Moomers

(translated: Taylor with his son Ayumu and sister Cristen)

Our family - where love brought us

What a Wonderful World

(Julie, Joel Burns and me backstage at the Ellen show)

I had an incredible experience yesterday - living proof that when you tell the truth, life rewards you in ways you couldn’t have imagined. Thanks to my angel friends Julie and Mary, I got to attend the taping of the Ellen show featuring councilman Joel Burns. If you aren’t familiar with this gentleman, he is the one who gave a moving speech at his City Council meeting in Fortworth Texas about being bullied as a gay teen, and how that almost led him to end his life. The You Tube video has had close to 2 million hits.

The Ellen staff is such a beautiful mixture of gay, straight, young, old, black, white, asian, hispanic…everyone wearing sneakers and baseball caps of their favorite teams. Backstage, as they hustled about getting ready for the show, I was amazed at the happy, relaxed atmosphere which I thought was impossible in TV-land. It just felt so comfortable. No one was stressed or panicked. We were greeted with smiles everywhere we turned (and I attribute that to Mary- completely). But what made my heart swell was the realization that this staff was a microcosm of what the world could be like, and it gave me hope.

Julie and I settled in the audience to watch the show (which I hope you’ll all watch today!). When Ellen stepped out, the audience went wild cheering for her, and I got teary (and the “teariness” never stopped the rest of the day). Imagine twenty, or even ten years ago – this openly gay woman being so beloved and one of the biggest stars in the world. You could feel that love in the room, and my heart was so lifted as I thought to myself We are evolving, finally. Yes, we are evolving.

Joel Burns was inspiring beyond measure. It took such tremendous courage to speak his truth the way he did, and in doing so, he has opened hearts and minds everywhere. He was poised and articulate, speaking from his own heart with such self-assuredness.

After the show, Julie and I rushed backstage to meet him, catching him just as he was leaving with his mother, a lovely Southern lady. He was such a warm and genuine man (and so handsome!). Both Julie and I got choked up as we told him what his courage meant to us, and he responded with warm hugs. He told us he simply felt inspired to make the speech that day, having no idea that it would turn into an internet sensation. In fact, he was stunned by the reaction. His phone line blew up and the city had to install a new system, as they were averaging a call a minute since the video posted.

We then went with him to meet Charles Robbins (CEO of the Trevor Project) another wonderful (and handsome!) man. Charles said the suicide hotlines at Trevor Project have been so busy since the video, they’ve had to expand their staff. Countless lives have been saved all over the world as a result of one man’s courageous, honest speech. Can you imagine? Even as a writer I’m finding it difficult to express what I felt in that moment talking to these trailblazers in tolerance. Almost like I had been holding my breath for so long and could finally exhale, knowing that my brothers and my friends might possibly be the last generation to have endured this form of bigotry, and knowing also that as of today my friend Brian could re-enlist in the military if he so chose. The tide is turning, just as I always believed it would.

Driving home under gloomy gray skies, I was smiling ear to ear. I felt the Universe was giving us all a great big nod- yep, you’re on the right track, people. The rain pelted my windshield, cleansing the world, washing away the pain and prejudice of yesterday. And I realized that this day happened for me largely because I dared to tell my truth when I wrote the blog “For Boys and Girls Standing on Ledges”, admitting my own struggles with suicidal depression as a young person. This was what made Julie think of me when she got an extra pass to this show.

What a wonderful world it would be if we all dared to tell and LIVE our truth. If we followed Joel’s lead, to be honest about who we really are, the fears we harbor, the shame we carry. In telling the truth, we find out how much we’re all alike. Secrets and shame no longer hold any power over us. Without fear – only love remains.

Imagine what would happen if we could:

Replace fear with love.

Rejoice in our commonalities.

Celebrate our differences.

Turn toward each other when we are afraid, rather than against each other.

Oh what a wonderful world it would – (scratch that) will - be.

The Truth Whisperer

My husband and I have a nickname for our friend Erin. We call her the “Anger Handler”. If Erin is your friend and someone has ever done something to hurt you, all you need do is tell her the grievous nature of this attack, and then let go. When I do this with her, she gets ten times angrier that I’d ever allow myself to be, ranting and raving about this horrible person and all the ways she should meet her doom. The funny thing is it polarizes me. Erin is so angry at said perpetrator, there isn’t any room, nor need, for me to be angry. My husband Troy and I joke about how we want to make some popcorn, sit back and watch Erin “handle” our anger for us, now and then commenting…”Yeah, yeah, that’s a good one. I should have said that. What else you got?” As if suddenly we are voyeurs into our own crisis. She could do a stand up act. Just let the audience members throw any story at her of how they were done wrong, and then let her at it. I’m telling you, it would sell out! Everyone could use an anger handler!

In my own way, I guess that’s what I’m trying to do with truth. We’ve had a lot of dramarama in our lives the past six months, and my husband doesn’t really want to talk to people about it. He’s really kind of embarrassed by it. But me? I hang my dirty laundry out on the line for the whole world to see. Call it a strange obsession, a birth defect maybe. I don’t know. I was born to tell it like it is. I give voice to some dark things. I’m learning through the comments and feedback I get that these are things others might feel, but never say out loud. So I do it for them, much to the chagrin of my husband. I’m in training to be a “Truth Whisperer”. I’ll say the scary ugly stuff you don’t want to say…and you can go make some popcorn. : )

People have commented how brave I am to tell the truth, how hard that must be. But here’s the secret - it’s actually easy. What’s hard is trying to project an image that I have it all together, that I’m not insecure, neurotic, damaged, confused, afraid. It is unbelievably liberating to tell the truth.

So here are a few “truths” for today:

I’m forty six years old.

I’m terrified of aging.

I doubt myself as a parent.

I often feel like a failure.

I worry in the middle of the night, which leads to pacing the house “checking” things…windows, doors, electrical outlets

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression all throughout my life.

I’m vain.

I’ve been estranged from my mother’s side of the family for seven years, which feels like a colossal failure

I’m cynical and jaded but want to get back to hopeful

I watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond.

There, I’ve said it.

(Can I get a witness on any of the above?)

And you know what happens after I release it? I am lighter. I think to myself…yeah so I’m damaged and imperfect….so what. It’s really not that big a deal. I’ve gotten the scary stuff out and made room inside to feel all the good things that want to occupy space in my heart instead. Love, gratitude, joy….

So this is my mission: to be a Truth Whisperer and encourage others to do the same. I’m telling you, it’s not that bad once you get used to it, so jump in – the water’s fine!

Come on…I double dog dare ya!

Father's Day/ What's In A Name?

Seven years ago, I was standing in a Hallmark store choosing a Father’s Day card, tears running down my face. It was the first time in my life I had gotten to visit that section of the store, where the cards read: “To My Dad”.

Until I was 39 years old, I had lived with the fact that I had no father. I knew that was biologically impossible, but I was told not to ask about my real father, and never to tell anyone my real name. Growing up, my mother gave me the last name Holmes, but it was a lie. That was the name of her boyfriend, who was basically a stepfather to me for the five years he and my mom were together. Gene Holmes was a good and kind man, but unfortunately, he was a short chapter in my life. The truth is…I am not a Holmes, I am not a Dexter.

Today I’d like to introduce you to the real me.

Hello, my name is Hollye Fisher. I am the daughter of Ted  Fisher, a hard working man, a Baptist preacher who teaches bible study at the Second Baptist Church of Galena Park. My father is an oil painter, a gardener, a recovering addict, an ex-con and a huge sports fan. He reads the newspaper, the bible, and loves his family above all else. He is human and flawed, with an enormous loving heart. I have never heard him say an unkind word about anyone - ever. I have never heard him swear. You've heard of people who would give the shirt off their back? He recently gave his cell phone to a young couple who were struggling financially, and still pays the bill. That pretty much sums him up. Although my father was only present for the first three years of my life, he still left his imprint upon me. It is from him that I got my heart.

Although we’ve built a loving relationship, this year I found myself stuck in that Father’s Day section of the card store. There are no Hallmark sentiments that encapsulate the complicated relationship and history I have with my father (and I suspect that I’m not the only one.) Considering that he spent the majority of my childhood in prison, ours was not a Father Knows Best scenario. But he is the man who brought me into the world and set me on my unique path. I carry his blood, his genes, the fallout from his damages, and his history. I no longer struggle against that fact, I embrace it, and am grateful for all of it.

I feel that is an important thing to reflect upon and honor today. We are our father’s children, for better or worse. We carry their legacy in our very bones. What we do with it is up to us.

Today I not only honor my father, but I honor myself in claiming the truth of who I am, and who I come from. It is with deep gratitude that I say:

Thank you Dad, for ushering me into this crazy world, and for all the love, blessings and insanity you have handed down.

Now why can’t I find a Hallmark card like that?