Discouraged.

Sigh.

Prepare for a lil sigh-ing, if your up for it.

Yesterday I was reading a review from a fellow InterVarsity colleague, David Zimmerman who also happens to be a thrice published author.  The book review was on the book,  Jesus, My Father, the CIA and me.  A Memoir of Sorts.

David says this…

“Memoir is a tricky thing to write, trickier than it appears on the surface. You would think that anyone could do it; it seems like simply putting words to paper to tell the story of your life...

Ah, but while anyone can write down their story, it takes talent to write a memoir, to tell an intensely personal story that not only compels the reader forward without losing his or her interest (the line between personal and arcane is as fine as it is unforgiving) but universalizes the themes so that the readers can find themselves, and something beyond themselves, in the telling.

This is the feat that Cron accomplishes, moving generally effortlessly between the ethereal and the earthy, the sublime and the silly, all in service to the task of finding a path to true–a spiritual and emotional equilibrium that, for the person, approaches a reconciled self.“

(I really hope David doesn’t mind my yanking giant paragraphs straight from his blog). So. I bolded David’s thoughts that –as an aspiring memoir author– STRESSED ME THE JUNK OUT stuck out to me.

Since my Dec. 30, 2011 first draft manuscript of my memoir is due, I feel like I’ve whipped myself into a frenzy so much so that when I think about the book I get a pit in my stomach, I feel nervous, my fingers get a little shaky and I can simultaneously feel like I could cry hard or laugh all at the same time.  You may think I’m employing the use of hyperbole, but I can assure you, bleaders I. AM. NOT.

I am GENUINELY & WHOLEHEARTEDLY AFRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAID of trying to publish this book!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  You have to believe me because you know I don’t usually use this much caps lock and this many exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The other night I spent 4 hours editing ONE CHAPTER.  I don’t know, maybe best-selling authors of The Help, or the aforementioned CIA memoir would say they spent longer than that on each chapter but sometimes I feel like a loser who DOES NOT KNOW WHAT I AM DOING!!!!!! Sigh.

I have 68 chapters.

Reading David’s review made me want to quiver up in a ball and suck my thumb until it was raw.  I don’t know, y’all if I’ve written a memoir that will compel the you as the reader forward.  Have I written a memoir that will keep your interest through my INTENSE personal story?  Do I know the fine line between personal and arcane? Have I universalized a theme so you can find yourself in my story?  Have I accomplished this ‘feat?’  Do I even have talent?

Sigh.

And for whatever reason, the idea that I may not have written a good book in these last LONG 7 years, makes me want to cry, throw my hands up in shame, sit in sack cloth and ashes or jump off a high building.

Deep, long and heavy Sigh.

Discouraged crappy-memoir “writer,”