When writing ‘what you know’ is not enough

From the day I started writing stories, I was told two things – read everything you can and write what you know. I did that, ending up adding three inches to my waistline. I eat when I’m frustrated. There was nothing — no mysterious plots, thought provoking tales, or exhilarating adventures. Just dull narrative about tedious middle class characters in tiresome, predictable situations. My sisters and I were the white in white bread – fairhaired, middle class, post war baby boomers, obedient daughters in the Age of Aquarius. There was no truancy, protesting, arrests, expulsions, bad grades or unexpected pregnancies. We were good kids, kept in line by parental rules and expections. Staying out after curfew was the worst of our transgressions.

As far as I knew, there was no legacy of family enslavement or enslaving, mysterious wealth from ill-gotten gains, or edgy criminal relationships or grifters slipping into and out of our lives. Both sides of our family immigrated in the late 1800’s, farmers, unemployed laborers, or tired factory workers who believed they could ‘boot strap’ themselves to success if only they kept their noses ‘to the grindstone’ in 'the land of plenty'. The men worked and the women bred children, did volunteer work and kept house. After Dad came home from the war, he got to work. Steadily, Mom and Dad solidly surpassed their parents expectations, rapidly moving up the economic food chain, and meeting the government’s repopulation goal of 2.5 children. There were three of us). Mom relied on the Betty Crocker cookbook, bought Breck shampoo and sewed our clothes. In 1953, to corroborate their success, Dad began trading in the family car every two years a fancier one. Past depression struggles and war depravations were only discussed when one of us girls needed straightening out, reminding us ‘how bad things used to be’.

My parents always assumed that the family could live where they wanted, eat and shop where they wanted and would be treated with courtesy and respect all around town. I was the oldest, cutest and responsible. Dad always worked, never doubting that his college degree and corporate loyalty was the foundation for a successful career. Dad always voted Republican and, therefore, so did Mom. It was inescapable that we should go to college to continue our family’s upward mobility. Although Mom preferred a safe route for us —college would provide a stable man to marry and raise his children—, our driving force was to pursue independence, buoyed by Dad’s acceptance. He had no sons, so why not? Our parents didn’t understand what changed in us, but they were certain we settle eventually. We were terribly normal.

My life, as I saw it, was boring. I became cranky and annoyingly whiny. I lacked the experiences to provide a foundation for story writing in the style of Mark Twain, Hemmingway, Tony Morrison, Alice Walker, or others. How I wished I’d been born with a mind full of fantasy and make believe. I wanted the intrinsically artistic and imaginative perspectives to storytelling like that of J.K. Rowling, Lewis Carroll, or George Orwell. I seemed solidly stuck in my middle class reality.

But I cannot not write. In 2006 I knuckled down to writing classes, started blogging about the misery of Memphis, and drafted two exceedingly poor manuscripts. It was time find a different approach. Instead of a “write what you know’ memoir approach I dug into a mysterious padded container inherited from my mother. I had buried in a storage box in the basement. There were letters, photos and assorted memorabilia, snippets from our parents and grandparents lives. They transformed my reality controlled mind into an imaginative narrative storehouse. They were the fact-based reality that launched my creative thinking.