It’s been a while since I was here. And after sustaining another treadmill/bra-related injury, I started thinking… lousy underwire, chafing, brush burns, boobs, mammaries, memories… You’re with me, right? I’m so glad we think alike. (Note to self: owning more than two sports bras at a time decreases frequency of doing workout laundry and likelihood of scars ruining my future centerfolds.)
I was honored to be asked to do a guest post on Kate Evangelista’s Reads, Reviews, Recommends this week. After applying some much-needed Neosporin and a Band-Aid, I started wondering what I should write about. She said the post could be about anything – my writing process, books, etc. So, while I considered the many things I had to say on those topics, I was pleasantly surprised by my memories – not mammaries. (As long as I've had them, the latter – despite valiant efforts – don’t surprise me much.)
I don’t really use my memories for writing. People have asked if my fiction is autobiographical rather than imagined. It’s not. But, I do use memories of feelings – from being in similar situations – if that applies. So, all my friends should rest assured. I won’t be telling your business to the public – unless you really do me wrong. Then watch out!
I climb inside my characters and improvise – utilizing my fine acting skills (you’d better not be laughing) plus a little empathy. (Don’t try this at home. If you do, please record it and post it on YouTube.)
Like everyone, I have memories I’d rather forget. But, I also have good ones. (See: ones that don’t make me wince or involve wardrobe malfunctions.) I’d run from the bad – like from cellulite on my treadmill – but then I probably wouldn’t be able to access the emotional depths for all the tragic, heartening and fun stuff I like to write. (Second note to self: similar to mammaries, memories don’t defy gravity. Buy a memory push-up bra – sans aforementioned underwire.)
I get to laugh at my own expense or encourage and entertain someone else when I have the courage to make myself and my characters vulnerable. When my muse runs free, she exposes something about me. (But, there’s always that stupid staple in the middle.) My sense of humor, heartbreak, hope, frustration and faith in our ability to make our lives better ask for terrycloth robes. (They’re shy, but relatively low-maintenance.) It’s a small price to pay – looking at the benefits. Instead of running away, I run to the feeling and wring it for everything I can get.
Now, if only I could find some good support – and Band-Aids that actually come in my flesh tone…
