Writing and Vulnerability

This semester I am taking Introduction to Creative Nonfiction with Dr. Glen Retief.  Although I maintain this blog, have kept journals, and have written for my high school newspaper and Susquehanna Currents, creative nonfiction is a much different beast than those things.  Currently, our class is in the memoir unit.  Our assigned exercise was to recreate a memory in 1 to 3 pages.  As I worked on this yesterday, I certainly—and deeply—felt that different. 

The moments I feel most drawn to write about are inevitably the most embarrassing for me.  Putting them on the page, with the intention of later sharing them, requires a vulnerability with which I’m not very familiar.  Sure, vulnerability is something I can channel into my preferred genre of choice, fiction, but it’s disguised.   At the end of the day, the story is about my characters.  The emotions belong to them, even if they were taken from mine.  Saying This is my life.  This is me.  These are my feelings is a vulnerability of another variety.  One that’s raw and fresh.    

There is basically no way the subject of my scene will ever find out about it.  After all, it’s just an exercise!  The topic for my memoir is not even firmly decided yet.  And still, I ask myself these questions: What if someone from my high school got their hands on this?  They’d know who I was writing about, wouldn’t they?  It would be so clear, even if I changed names.  And while I don’t believe I paint this person in a negative light, it would certainly change their perception of me.   That paranoid has potential to be paralyzing.   

Also, I’m normally not afraid of sharing my work.  Rip apart my words!  Please!  But sharing myself—again, a totally different beast.   I know that when it comes to workshops, the class will be there to aid and critique my writing, not critique my life, but that doesn’t mean there’s a fear that while they talk about structure and characterizations, they’re internally ripping to shreds my life, personality, and choices. 

All of this, I suppose, is why there is a Confidentiality Policy instated for the course.   I now appreciate its importance. 

In the end, fear and awkwardness were set aside, and I wrote the required scene.  I also began feeling attracted to other instances of my life that could relate so well to this moment.  In my brain, this exercise to prepare for memoir was turning into a memoir.  And though I’ve been approaching Nonfiction with a certain dose of hesitance, I’ll admit, I even had some fun toying with these prospects. 

The direction I think I can take this in will only mean more vulnerability.  More recent wounds and revelations.  More potential humiliation if somehow my words were unleashed, getting back to the sources of their inspiration. 

When I get to the end of this course, I hope that I can say I didn’t hold back.  I hope that fighting off those feelings and submerging myself in vulnerability will be worth the results.