I Hear Voices And See People Who Aren’t Really There

There’s a cast of characters living in my mind and they’ve been there for years. Most of them have names, some rather creative ones, like my old friend Knits McWaller, who came to me in a dream one night. Others, more ordinary: Charlotte, Alene, Sam, Sara, David, Belle, and Iz. I ponder their stories, I hear their voices in my mind. I haven’t lost my mind; I’m just a writer. A writer with untold and unresolved stories living in my head.

I spent the morning with Ruth; she’s existed in shadow form for decades but I haven’t had the courage to let her out. I’ve always wanted to write fiction but for me to do so risks vulnerability to a degree that surpasses that which is required to write memoir. I haven’t been brave enough to face that truth and, if I’m honest, nor have I been willing to put the effort into working through it.

Days before my first memoir, Two Hearts: An Adoptee’s Journey Through Grief to Gratitude, was released, I seriously contemplated pulling the plug on the whole thing. If you’ve read it, you know I opened the door on all kinds of muck about myself with that book. I took a personal risk in writing it and working through uncomfortable truths in the process, and even more by releasing it and (as I felt at the time) standing naked in a room full of people.

Writing fiction has seemed a step too far. Not only does it require a measure of ability to wrangle words, plot, and all the rest that goes along with crafting a story, a fictional tale gives the reader a peek into the recesses of the writer’s imagination. I’ve entertained stories with some of my character friends that I’d feel relatively comfortable to share. Historical fiction. Contemporary fiction with subplots about adoption. I’ve even got a novel outlined and have made a good start on writing it. Other stories (and these are the ones that I’m most interested in fleshing out) come from a different place. They’re raw and real and, if asked what colour they are (because stories can have colours, dontcha know) I’d say smoky gray, told in the voice of a writer who isn’t afraid to write it as she feels it.

I’ve been thinking about writing lately—thinking, not doing—and pondering whether to stop calling myself a writer and do something else. I always thought that once I retired, I’d write. I’ve written and published two books (and ten blog books for my future family’s eyes) in the ten years since I walked away from the corporate world, and that’s something. But lately, I don’t feel like I’m being true to the writer I want to be.

So, I’m going to spend time with Ruth and some of the others and see where we go together. I’m going to listen to what these imaginary (?) people have to tell me and write it down. I might take some classes. Or, I might not. I’m going to carve out time and write for no one other than myself with the intention of honouring that honest, smoky gray voice that, I believe, has something to say.