Behind the circulation desk where I am librarian at our tiny town library, I am listening to the conversations of the writers who have pulled their chairs into a circle to glean writing wisdom from our visiting published author. I take part a little but as I do not consider myself a writer, because I have no desire to write anything to be published professionally. Writing posts on this blog is enough of a stretch and I have no discipline in place for writing.

Am I a writer? Should I write? I feel emotionally connected to some ideas. The visiting author tells a story of a son who opened his father’s box of memories and wrote creatively about each item. Immediately I thought of Daddy’s trunk. Could I do that? I was thinking of some of the items in the trunk. I think my sister would be better at that task. Could she now do that, post stroke? I think so. I want to think that yes, she still could.

I don’t know anything, what do I know? They say to write what you know. I only have my own memories and they cannot be trusted. My memories mingle with stories from my siblings. They kept saying “You don’t remember that, you were not even born!” but they seemed like my own memories because I had heard their stories for years. I think the tidbits I do remember that are my own memories are interesting, because the invoke such emotions. In my youngest years they are mostly beautiful and sweet emotions. I know that I am blessed. I love my family. They love me.

The writers here are very decided. They have plans for their writing. In my dreamworld I could write a memoir. In reality it is doubtful. We just did a writing exercise, making a bubble map. All of the real writers had a current project to use. I only have my life that I know. My main bubble: My life. Second Bubble the Batley House. Streaming from that so many memories at that house. Third Bubble is James Avenue house, then Dr. Peed’s house. My life’s memories are neatly divided by the houses we made into homes. Next a bubble for Fuquay. But there it stops.. the happiest memories. Fuquay changed my innocent childhood. Fuquay was beautiful in many ways, yes, but it was difficult. I was in 6th grade when we moved. Adolescence is difficult no matter where you are. It became possible to me in that moment that If I ever do write about my life, it will probably stop at Lillington and be about my childhood. After that it would be hard and difficult writing because of the heaviness of life. I guess. I don’t know. I am typing while listening to the writers tell their own stories.