writing memoir – Fscottwrites

Looking For a New Read

If you need a new read or a gift, I recommend some recently published memoirs by some of my writer friends.

Famished by Anna Rollins – A groundbreaking debut memoir that examines the rhyming scripts of diet culture and evangelical purity culture, both of which direct women to fear their own bodies and appetites. To be a Christian woman was to be thin and chaste, sidestepping any pleasures of the flesh that would cause you–or a brother in Christ–to stumble into sin. But thinness was also a sign of virtue to the outside world.

Motion Dazzle: A Memoir of Motherhood, Loss, and Skating on Thin Ice by Jocelyn Jane Cox – Former competitive figure skater and coach Jocelyn Jane Cox is desperate to care for her toddler and her ailing mother, all while preparing to host a fabulous zebra-themed first birthday party at her house. As a new parent whose supportive mom is slipping away with dementia, she finds herself spinning in the middle of the so-called “sandwich generation”.

Camouflage: How I Emerged from the Shadows of a Military Marriage by Heather Sweeney– After camouflaging her identity to conform to the expected role of the supportive military spouse, Heather Sweeney emerged from the shadows of her husband’s Navy career to rediscover herself as a single mother approaching middle age.

Manna Songs: Stories of Jewish Culture & Heritage – a stunning collection of 32 powerful essays celebrating Jewish joy. Curated by Diane Gottlieb, with a foreword by Erika Dreifus, Manna Songs speaks to the rich diversity of Jewish lives. Through tallit and candlesticks, paintbrushes and prayer, these beautiful Jewish voices reach back across generations and pass traditions forward. Readers will find humor alongside sorrow, questions beside wonder, people lost, others found. Manna Songs will delight, move, and inspire you. It will make your heart sing!

The Full Catastrophe: All I Ever Wanted, Everything I Feared by Casey Mulligan Walsh – Casey needs a family of her own: the joys and the sorrows, people who love her, and a place she belongs-what Zorba the Greek called “the full catastrophe”-and she’s determined to make it happen. Adrift in the world after losing her father to a heart attack when she was eleven and her mother to cancer soon after, the death of her only sibling eight years later strengthens her resolve.

More friends have books coming out in the new year, and I will share those in the next month. I’ve witnessed these writers work hard to finish their books, get them published and persistently promote their stories. It’s a honor to help spread the word and to be a part of writing community.

Now, to get back to fine-tuning my memoir and getting it out in the world.

Wishing you a peaceful holiday,

Frances

Writing in lists, an essay was born

Back in 2020, when the world shut down, my writing group met via Zoom every Tuesday to write autobiography in lists.

Each week, we had prompts to pick and choose from.

I was surprised by where the list prompts led me.

Unusual things about me compared to most people I know
Things I think people will be secretly thinking about me at my funeral
Four wishes I would ask a genie to grant me
Things I have too many of
Times I’ve stayed too long
Books that changed how I see the world
Times you’ve felt betrayed
Noises you hate

We met every week for two years. We wrote, read our writing out loud, cried, and laughed together.

I wrote an essay from a list prompt: things you wish you could ask someone deceased, and submitted it to literary magazines for a couple of years. It finally found a home at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.
Here’s the essay link: It Was All Terribly Unfair

I hope you read it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts about it.

Thank you for reading.

Frances

The Solace of Acceptance

An essay of mine has been on a journey and is now published on Estranged Substack. Several months ago, writer friends sent me a call for essays on estrangement for an anthology, No Contact, to be published by Catapult Publishing this spring.

I received the kindest rejection from the editor: “Your piece was a finalist in our review and seriously considered for inclusion. Unfortunately, I am sad to say we will not be able to feature it in the anthology. This decision has more to do with balance in topics and voices covered in the collection than with your writing, which impressed us.”
She suggested I submit to the Estranged Substack.

It was published yesterday, and I’m feeling a little vulnerability hangover. There is so much to say about estrangement situations, and yes, there are more sides to the story. This is just one small part of the complex situation. I wish there were more compassion in these family struggles.

Here is the link to the essay: The Solace in Acceptance

Thank you for reading and be kind to each other.

Frances

My Summer Highlight (a writer’s conference)

I felt a hint of fall in the air this morning. School has started, and kids will report on what they did during their summer vacation. Time is different as we grow older. Summers are gone in a blip, and holiday decorations beg our attention in the stores. (I totally ignore them)

My summer highlight was attending the Port Townsend Writers Conference for a week in July.

When I made it to Fort Worden, the grounds where the conference was held, I took a stroll on the beach before checking in. The waves clapped onto the sand, applauding me for getting there after the long drive.

In line for dinner, a short, slight, spunky woman, whom I thought was around my age (66), and I laughed that the wind was messing with our short haircuts. “I wrote an essay about my hair,” she exclaimed, then shared the details and the revelation of learning to stand up for herself. Carla and I carried on, sharing our souls in no time.

After orientation, three writers read. I wasn’t familiar with them but now I want more of each of them. Alice Anderson, raised in Mississippi, read from her memoir, Some Bright Morning, I’ll Fly Away, Bryce Andrews, Montana author. I knew of him but hadn’t read him. Then Bryan Fry, editor of Blood Orange Review, born in Montana.

On the sidewalk that leads back to the dorms, the woman next to me said she might go to the beach before bed. I looked over at her, “Are you Toni Jensen?”
“Yes”
“I have been listening to your memoir on my drive, and so excited to be in your writing workshop all week. I am on Chapter 12, Chicken. Y’all are at the ice cream social at Clara Tyson’s (of Tyson Chicken). “She is something else,” said Toni.
Toni’s memoir, Carry, A Memoir of Survival on Stolen Land, is powerful, well-written, hard, and necessary.

In the shared restroom back at the dorm, a woman says hello with a Southern accent. She, too, is from Mississippi, the small town of Laurel. In the hallway, Carol joined our conversation. Carol is writing fiction only because she doesn’t have all the information she needs to write about her father, who was the last to be released from Manzanar, the site of one of ten American concentration camps, where more than 120,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated during World War II. The three of us could have talked for hours, but it was late.

The interactions and connections made over the first four hours were a good omen for the week ahead.

Amy, one of the dozen students in Toni’s morning workshop, entered the room each morning with an enthusiastic “Good morning, everyone”. Toni created a space for us to share our writing, receive feedback while teaching the craft of writing. By the end of the week, we knew each other’s stories and wanted more. Amy organized a monthly Zoom for us to continue with writing feedback. Occasionally, Toni will join us.

I could go on about the magical experiences from the week. What I will say is that folks who had been attending for years commented that this summer was one of the best. Hopefully, I’ll be able to attend next summer. Centrum, the organization that holds the conference and many other conferences for artists and musicians, is excellent. I recommend checking it out: Centrum: creativity in community.

Carla, the woman whom I had said was around my age, turns out she’s 83! She and I have exchanged a few emails since the conference. Our Zoom group has met once. In our group, a biologist who worked for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in 2003 for many years is writing a powerful memoir about the government’s denial of climate change for decades. I’m willing to bet she will be published, and it will be an enlightening book.

After the conference, I made my way to Eugene, OR, to visit friends and attend an annual weekend with the River Rompers. Each summer, a group of friends stay at a vacation rental on a river to swim, eat, and connect, holding the space for each other’s pain and joy. It’s always revitalizing. However, after a week in Eugene and just before our weekend away, I had a painful flare-up of diverticulitis and decided to come home early. I hated missing our treasured time, but it was the right choice. Rest and a liquid diet are the remedies.

I look forward to mornings that ask us to put on a sweater and watch the leaves change colors. It’s my favorite season. What’s yours?

Thanks for reading, Frances

Inspiration and Distraction for Today

Here we go! I hope everyone is taking care of themselves today as we wait to find out which direction our country will go.

Sunday I attended a friend’s birthday event. It was brilliant. In a reserved room at Missoula’s award winning library, she read a few poems for inspiration, gave us a prompt to use the five senses: taste, smell, hearing, touch, and sight.

She read a wonderful excerpt from Joe Brainard‘s I Remember. He was an artist and writer. It began:

I remember the only time I ever saw my mother cry. I was eating apricot pie. I remember how much I used to stutter. I remember the first time I saw television.

It’s a lovely exercise. If you need a distraction today maybe try your hand at writing a poem.

In the ten minutes we had to write and stirred by I Remember this is what my pen and paper composed:

I remember when my cousin, Wilkie Bee, and I stayed with our grandmothers

Our grandmothers were sisters

I remember that one of us would get a banana for best behavior

I remember I never got a banana

I remember the jar of buttons

I remember how I loved to string them onto a string

I remember my grandmother, Nanoo, smelled of baby powder

I remember the sound of the silver bell she jingled, signaling the housekeeper to bring the biscuits to the table or fill her dainty coffee cup

I remember how the biscuits and butter melted in my mouth

I remember how dainty my grandmother was, how she spoke softly

I never heard her raise her voice

Back to the Memoir

After a much needed long break from writing my memoir, I’m back at it. It’s almost finished, then will need beta readers and an editor. I see why it takes some people ten, twenty years to write their memoir, especially when it brings up difficult feelings.
Part of writing memoir, is talking with others in your life to verify facts, jog your memory and hear their perspective.
It was most enlightening to talk with past co-workers. Co- workers who worked with me and my ex-husband back in the early 90’s. They were eager to speak with me. I was thankful for their generosity of thought and time.
I was stuck by how blind I was back then, hungry for connection, and how much I wanted a family.
My ex-husband, who was not my husband at the time, I’ll call him Matt, and I worked side by side behind the customer service desk in a beautiful bookstore. He was so kind, so helpful, showing me where to find books, telling me about the latest best reads.
When my young daughter was dropped off at the end of the day, he would drop everything, read and draw with her. He was winning me over. He won me over. He eventually divorced his wife and married me.
Without asking, in the interview with one ex co-worker they remarked, he is like all the Matt Lauers and Jeffery Epsteins of the world and getting away with it. He never got his work done, he was so busy chatting, flirting with customers, cheating on his wife.
I remembered how I used to take up for him at work. Our boss would be upset with him for not getting work done. I would argue, “Matt is so busy helping customers, he doesn’t have time to get the work done, let him focus on customer service, he’s good at it.” What I didn’t know was he had lost thousands of dollars for the store by not doing his duties with publisher co-advertising, that another co-worker was having to hunt down the incomplete special order slips that he had scattered in and out of his desk.
Meantime, I was being showered with gifts, love letters and attention. He became a “father” figure to my daughter, reading with her, painting, playing and getting down right silly. His fun loving personality won the hearts of my siblings and parents.
He was this single mom’s dream come true.
My nausea increased when my co-worker said, “it used to give me the creeps, the way he was with your daughter.” Again, I had been blind.
When Matt confided in me about the times he strayed in his previous marriage, he blamed the marital troubles on his wife. I believed him. I believed him when he told me I was the one for him.
I felt his earnestness when he begged for forgiveness the first time he stepped out of our relationship. I forgave him the 2nd time. I wasn’t strong enough to leave when I should have. I was raised in a culture that sent a message that a woman isn’t complete without a man.
Years into our struggling marriage, I discovered the porn he was watching of boys having sex. He refused to discuss it. Not knowing if he was a perv or exploring his sexuality, I was left to think the worse. I kept all this to myself, drank and became depressed. After I discovered his viewing habits, he treated me as if I didn’t exist in our own home. In counseling, as I broached the subject he stared into space with pinched lips. We had always celebrated birthdays, holidays with gifts and fanfare. On my 40th birthday there were no gifts, not even a happy birthday was spoken. He was angry at me for finding his secret.
Talking with my ex co-workers felt validating. They knew what it was like to work along side someone who to outsiders was the nicest guy in the world, but didn’t carry his weight with his workload or admit when he was wrong.
I realized the same traits that made Matt hard to work with; unable to take responsibly for his mistakes, avoidance and denial, also made it hard to be in a marriage with him.
Towards the end of our marriage, my body rebelled, cyst on ovaries, endometriosis that required a hysterectomy. The power of sudden hormone imbalance deepened my depression. I was a mess.
After years of counseling Matt and I sat down to discuss our options, we mutually agreed a separation was our next step. As we sat down to tell my daughter, he piped in, “I want you to know none of this is my idea and I am not for it.” I looked on as my daughter cried in his arms.
I had hoped we could at least end well. That we could still co-parent with love. But he needed to remain the nice guy as much as I had wanted a family of my own.
My family didn’t understand why I was leaving such a “nice” man.
I became angry after his ambush, taking no responsibility for his part in our failed marriage. I did crazy things. I called the woman he had an affair with and was seeing again, yelling into the phone that she was a whore.
In an attempt to find the right hormone replacement after my hysterectomy, one combination sent me into a black tunnel with no light in sight. I didn’t want to live. My teenage daughter became frightened by my drunkenness and erratic behavior.
The process of our divorce was messy. Since I had initiated the separation, he didn’t feel I deserved to keep the house we owned even if I bought him out. My goal had been to at least provide the stability of staying in the same home for my daughter until she left for college.
In my daughter’s second year of college, she planned to spend Thanksgiving break with me. A few weeks before, she phoned to say she could not get off work and wouldn’t be coming home for break. I offered to come for a visit before break. She liked the idea and asked me to stay with her. My first night there, we shared a dinner before she went out to meet friends. Since she didn’t have a car, I lent her mine. She gave me permission to check my email on her computer while she was gone. I clicked on the screen saver, up popped her email. The one from my ex-husband with Thanksgiving in the subject caught my eye. Curiosity got the best of me. He was letting her know he would be at the airport to pick her up the day before Thanksgiving and was looking forward to having her at his wedding.
Shocked and hurt, I grabbed a bottle of wine, gulping it as I paced the floor. My hurt turned to rage. When my daughter returned home, I yelled at her, “how could you do this to me, lie to me, why didn’t you just tell me the truth.” “Because of how you would react” she yelled back. I did have the sense to tell her it would be best for me to stay at a hotel and left.
The next day I discovered she had left her wallet in my car. I stopped by her house to drop it off. She cracked the door after my knock, “what are you doing here? If you don’t leave, I am calling the police.” I handed her the wallet, shocked, turned and left.
That night I attempted suicide.
We have never recovered from that terrible time.
My unattended to wounds caused me to hurt the one I love the most, my child.
We can’t go back in time and change what’s been done.
We can reflect, we can dig deep into ourselves, discover the open wounds that weren’t tended to, dig to a depth of discovering our true selves, let go of anger, make better, more mindful choices. Forgive ourselves, forgive others.

Thank you for reading and allowing me to be vulnerable.

I baked a cake

I baked a cake, from scratch, a chocolate very moist cake. It was easy and I am quite proud. I was able to use the nasturtiums I planted to decorate it.
One of our housemates turned 29 yesterday. Her boyfriend, who caters with a local gourmet company, cooked up chicken enchiladas, made homemade chips and verde, salad, and simple veggie appetizers for our household as part of her celebration.
Another housemate had just rearranged and freshened up our community sitting area. It was all ready to be decorated with pom poms and streamers for the party.
Bob, asked me to order a cake earlier in the week. After several calls on Wednesday we were too late. Seems there were a lot of weddings this weekend, bakeries couldn’t take any more orders. Even though I can count on one hand how many cakes I’ve baked in my 63 years on the planet, I began my internet search for best chocolate cake recipe. I honed in on one, BBC easy chocolate cake recipe, gathered the ingredients, made the so easy, so delicious icing in the morning. Baked the cake around noon. Bob was looking at me with skeptical eyes as I put the very liquidity batter filled pans into the oven. The recipe stated once you add the boiling water, “the cake mixture will now be very liquid.” I was only a little worried about how they would come out.
30 minutes later, it was a very moist and perfectly formed cake. I iced it like a pro.
Dinner was delicious. I was happy to have a decent appetite.
The cake was donned with candles, lit, carryed out to the tune of, you know, “Happy Birthday to You.” I helped slice and serve a few pieces when my body suddenly told me to go lie down. There was no arguing with it. I did get to hear the rave reviews the cake was getting.
It was really a fun day, helping with the festivities. I love the people I live with.
As I laid down with my black kitty, since I was tired, the tears just came. I wish my child and I could share special moments, laugh together. I miss her, damn it.
Life is short, life is precious, hope springs eternal, forgiveness is possible, choose love not fear.

Thanks for reading.

Diagnosis

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered I have something in common with Farah Fawcett and Marcia Cross (red head from Desperate Housewives) – anal cancer.
Marcia Cross has become a spokesperson for this becoming more common cancer. It stems from the HPV virus which 80% of us are walking around with. She speaks openly, encouraging others to do the same after learning that many hide their true diagnosis due to embarrassment.
I knew something wasn’t right for a few months. Thought it was hemorrhoids but the pain kept getting worse. My primary care doctor sent me to a surgeon after attempting to do an exam but I almost flew off the table. She did feel a little something. I almost flew off the surgeon’s table too. He scheduled to put me under in order to do the exam.
After the procedure, the person who phoned my friend, who was picking me up, told her the doctor would be talking to me saying, “he did a biopsy and it could be cancer.” Whoever he was needs to read up on his HIPAA – yes I will let the doctor know this happened. The doctor did not speak to me before I left. My friend felt terrible after telling me this. The results I received via email one evening confirmed it. Dr. Acher, the surgeon, phoned the next morning. In his compassionate doctor voice he let me know the treatment is a combo of radiation and chemo. No surgery since it sits right on the sphincter. “The oncologist will be calling to set up your appointment. I will see you for your follow up mid September.”
I’ve met with the chemo doctor, I had her for my iron infusions a year ago. Love her. Later the same day met with my radiation doctor. Love her too. In her southern accent, we discussed dogs, the complexities of the South and photography as much as we talked of treatment.
This Wednesday I have a pet scan with results on Thursday to assure the cancer is contained.
Radiation begins the next Monday, every weekday for about 25 treatments. A port for chemo will be implanted in my chest receiving continuous chemo. (not sure for how long)
There is great success with this combination. Since learning my diagnosis I am learning of others who had this and came out the other side. Though, they all say the process is brutal: digestive issues, fatigue, maybe mouth sores and loss of hair.
I’m getting my ducks in a row in order to rest when needed.

Before my diagnosis, I had registered to hear Mark Nepo speak on his new book, Surviving Storms this past Sunday online. Almost everything he said I needed to hear.
Conversation with Mark Nepo, Surviving Storms

Mind as a Keyhole by Mark Nepo

Beneath the cloud,
everything is grey.

Above the cloud,
everything is light.

Calling the cloud unfair
is being a victim.

Trying to conquer the cloud
is being a hero.

Calling the cloud a cloud
is the beginning of peace.

May we all love each other forward as Mark suggest.
Thanks for reading, Frances

Bringing Generations Together

It is the eve of a court ruling. A judge will determine whether I am able to see my grandchildren or not. It could go either way. I am preparing myself for the either way.
There are a lot needs in the world that need to be met. One is childcare. The other is for some who are aging; a sense of purpose. Our contemporary world allows folks to travel, to move to a desired place. Often, leaving parents and grandparents behind. I could begin a network of connecting the two. It could be for one-on-one childcare, or a childcare center run by “grandmothers”. Certainly, background checks would be done, applications, letters of reference, all the necessary checks. I’ve operated a childcare program before; I know how to do all that.
However, this ruling goes, I want to continue to have a full life and yes, a sense of purpose. When I learned I would be a grandmother, my heart was so full of hope. Hope first, that my child and I would come together and heal our wounds. That she would accept my help, that we would communicate effectively, and past wrongs would be forgiven. Visions of trips to the library, hikes, bike rides, reading, driving to sports and lessons, all the while laughing, embracing and kissing the hurts away with my grandkids came into view when I first heard the news of being of a grandmother.

However, the judge chooses to rule, I like the idea of connecting the needs of children and an older generation. I’ll run with that idea and see what I can make happen.

Eye drops, pet sitting and a new room

It’s been a week since I’ve had to do Robert’s eye drops four times a day. My last day of dog sitting for two very sweet Aussies is today. It has felt like a vacation, in a house on the south side of Missoula overlooking the valley, waking to springtime songbirds.
After Robert’s cataract surgery that’s been the routine, eye drops 4X/day. At his post op appointment they discovered an infection in the other eye, so more drops. Once that’s cleared up, then surgery on that eye. After two weeks of this routine, I realized I needed a break. That’s the beauty of pet sitting.
On the other hand, I’ve become somewhat attached to Robert, who I sometimes refer to as my pretend grandfather. Thankfully, our newest housemate, has the same caretaking gene I do and jumped on the eye drop routine.
Tonight when I go home, I’ll be sleeping in new room. Yep, moved again. This time into truly the best room in the hotel. The person before me moved away. Robert asked me to move in as it is above his room and he wants someone quiet, above him. You may remember me writing about the system he and the previous occupant had, if Robert had a emergency and needed help, he would bang on the pipes. The room was remodeled back when Robert’s brother moved in for a bit. It’s large, at the back of the building. There is a shower, larger closet, but no toilet.
I’ll also get back to helping with eye drops for a week before pet sitting again.
In the writing world, I’ve got a few essays submitted. I like writing essays. It’s the waiting game and very competitive. But you keep trying just as Maurice Ruffin, a now established writer did. His submission spreadsheet revealed 291 rejections and 3 acceptances.

Thanks for following and reading. Happy spring.