First Few Paragraphs
The Memoir Starts Now!
Welcome to my 57th Newsletter Friends!
Well, MasterClass has done it again. Grabbed my face by my jaw, pulled it downward toward the blank page, put a pen in my hand, and said, “Write the story goddamit! Just get the story down and worry about everything else later.”
Enough distractions! I promised that I would be writing my memoir here, “raw and in real time.” No more diversions, no more wondering out loud, “is this a play? A one-woman show? A screenplay?
It is a story! And it’s time I start telling it!
For just under $200 per year, MasterClass has given me the privilege of an education and inspiration from so many incredible writers: David Mamet, Aaron Sorkin, Roxane Gay, Amy Tan, David Sedaris, Margaret Atwood, Michael Lewis, Walter Mosley, and now James Patterson. I would pay $2000 to go to lunch for an hour and pick the brains of any of these writers, so I consider it a bargain!
Interestingly, James Patterson is the only author I am unfamiliar with, yet he seems to be having the greatest effect on me! I’ve only just begun his class, but I’ve been hearing his voice in my head, talking about the importance of the first few lines of your book. Today, I wrote the first draft of my first few paragraphs. So, we’re off and running, and I am delighted that you have joined me on this journey!
Enjoy!
A Look Was All It Took
It wasn’t political… at first. It wasn’t for the safety and well-being of my child either. No, it was much more personal than that, more subtle too. It was a look, a nod, a finger lifted from the steering wheel of a passing car, all done with a genuine smile that made me want to move to the country of my ancestry. Ireland is abundant with childlike curiosity and kindness, an entire people acting on impulse, instinct, and the fear of God. Beating hearts and bleeding hearts at home or in the pubs, their fires still burn, as they gather ‘round to hear a story or a song, or to sit in quiet contemplation.
We are so distant from our tribe and so far removed from the fire in America, and it is so loud, you cannot hear your own thoughts. For me, moving to Ireland was only a dream, an escape from the noise and the hustle and bustle and the material wants and needs that have us endlessly chasing our own tails. A dream, I could have easily forgotten, until the gun shots and the low-flying police helicopters and the words from my three-year-old son that woke me from my complacent coma; “Mom! We can’t sit by a window, there’s a live shooter out there!”
I’ve been running my whole life, full speed, consciously away from or blindly toward. After being here in Ireland for five years, I look around, I look up and down, to the future and to my past, and I find that I have caught my breath, and I find that I have no more reasons to run.
Thank You For Being Here With Me My Friend!
Cheers!
Bridget