Memoir in Pieces
Some years ago, I began writing short pieces that are not quite what Anne Fadiman calls Familiar Essays, but more the sort of thing The Sun Magazine publishes in its Reader’s Write section (a nod to them for the topics). I refer to mine as Focused Memoir. They are true in the way that what you see is true when you squint your eyes: the shapes are clear, but some details may be lost.
Taken together, they constitute an autobiography in bite-sized chunks, examined in retrospect and sifted for meaning. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, as well as the guilty.
We were in bed and ostensibly asleep by the time our father, a State Department official at a foreign post, arrived home…
It was my wedding day. The itchy gauze of my dress fell around me as I teetered on treacherously high heels, grownup clothes for a grownup event…
In college in the late 60’s, I was attached to two young men, neither one of whom were ever my lovers: Barry and Charles…
My stepfather had a collection of guns, in which he took great pride. Every time I brought a new boyfriend home, he would invite the fellow into his “shop…”
Bill showed up at the Club party late, almost at the end of the festivities. There were only a few of us still there, but I enthusiastically welcomed him, pressing a beer into his hands…
In the 1940’s, my mother was a beautiful young woman, my father a handsome young man. He was a talented writer, she an aspiring actress, but they were stuck in Oklahoma, where nothing fabulous was likely to happen to them…
Born abroad, a child of an American diplomat, I spent my childhood in foreign lands, then returned to a similar life as an adult…
