What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? In the spring of 2016, I started writing down random memories from my past. After about eight months, I wasn’t sure if what I’d written was actually a book. My husband suggested I hire a writing coach, and it’s one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.
I started working with Brooke Warner in January 2017, editing as I went. By the time I finished in March 2019, I had polished first draft. The next step was a copy edit Krissa Lagos to remove 10,000 words. My copy editor did such a great job that I couldn’t even tell what she’d taken out. Altogether, it took about two and a half years.
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Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. We live in a wooded community by a lake and my office is a light-filled space that looks out over the woods. I wrote my entire memoir there. My desk is filled with photos of our children, a framed photo of me when I was five, the first poem I typed on my father’s typewriter when I was ten, and a photo of me with Madeleine L’Engle. There’s also a lamp, a diffuser, and a little executive beach sandbox from my daughter, Hannah. There’s a bulletin board over my desk with inspiring quotes and special mementos. And more books than I will ever read.
What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? My writing habits are pretty set, no matter what I’m working on. I often write in my head for several days before putting my thoughts on paper. When I finally sit down, it comes quickly because I’ve worked through what I want to say. I write on a computer in complete quiet, and work best at my desk surrounded by windows with lots of light. I’m freshest in the morning, so that’s when I try to write. I also keep a small notebook on my nightstand. I often wake up writing in my head, so I get up and jot down what I’m thinking. If I don’t, it may not be there in the morning.
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When I was working on my memoir, I’d research people, photos, and articles to immerse myself in a certain time and place before beginning a chapter. I’d sit at my desk, close my eyes, and drop myself back into a scene, whether it was a room or a city street. I’m a visual writer, so starting with an image helped jump start whatever I was working on.
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Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers as reference.
This is a scene I wrote about going to visit my mother who was being hospitalized for a psychotic breakdown. It’s found on pages 273-276:
“A week after she was admitted, I went to see her. I would have gone sooner, but her ward had a policy that visitors weren’t allowed the first week to make the adjustment easier. Easier on whom? I wondered. It certainly hadn’t been easy on me.
It was dusk when I pulled up to the hospital. The pastel sky set off the large Gothic cathedral that towered over Duke South. I checked in, then took the elevator up to the third floor. I got off, walked over to the locked door, and pushed a red button. A moment later, I was buzzed inside. I made my way to the nurses’ station and told them I wanted to see Mama.
A young, redheaded doctor in a lab coat—thin, with freckles and bright blue eyes—turned around when he heard her name. “Are you Mrs. Whitfield’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“Dr. Larson.” He reached out his hand. “I’m your mother’s doctor.” His smile was warm, and I could see in his eyes that he was kind.
“How is she doing?” I asked, with trepidation.
“Not so good today, I’m afraid. She’s quite agitated.” He shook his head. “She’s a sweet lady. She told me she and your father sold their home. That he’s had some health problems. And there’s her cancer, of course. That’s a lot for someone to deal with. I think those things plus the chemical effects of her chemo have taken their toll. We’re trying ECT, electric shock therapy. I know it sounds scary, but clinically, we’ve had great results. I believe it will help.”
I stiffened. It had never occurred to me that electric shock would be part of her treatment. I’d seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Wasn’t that for people who were certifiably insane?
I looked into his eyes and saw only compassion. I had to trust him. What else could I do?
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I see her?”
“Yes, I’ll take you. It might be best to keep your visit short. She’s had a long day.”
Together, we walked through a secured entrance and proceeded into a sterile hallway with rooms on either side. I followed nervously behind the doctor as he entered the second room on the right. There was Mama, lying in a hospital bed with metal railings. Her bedsheets were pulled tight across her body, as if she were a mummy.
The last time I’d seen her, she’d looked sad and vacant. Now, she seemed fidgety. Her pupils were dilated—the effects of the drugs, I assumed.
“Mrs. Whitfield? Hi, it’s Dr. Larson. Your daughter, Laura, is here to see you.”
Your daughter, Laura. His introduction reminded me of how far gone she was.
“I’ll leave you two,” he said, looking at me. “We’ll talk soon.” He smiled, then turned and walked out of the room.
“Mama, hey. How are you?” I bent over her bed and gave her a kiss. Then I stroked her hair and looked into her eyes, desperate to see some sign of improvement.
“Get me out of here,” she said. There was anguish in her voice.
An invisible fist landed in the space just below my diaphragm. I closed my eyes against the crippling blow.
“Mama,” I said, opening my eyes. “I know you want to go home. But you need to stay here for now. You have a nice doctor. He’s going to help you. I’ll come to visit . . .”
I stopped short. I couldn’t bear to see her so vulnerable.
I looked up at the clock, the only object on the otherwise bare pale green wall. I watched the second hand make its painful way to the end of a minute, and then another, my eyes darting back between the two faces—the clock’s and Mama’s—until the silence was too much to bear.
My throat tightened. I felt the room shrinking, closing in on me, as though it were choking off my air supply.
“I love you, Mama,” I said, voice quivering. A tear ran down my cheek, pooling inside the corner of my mouth.
I thought of all the mean things I’d ever said to Mama, all the heartache I’d put her through. She’d lost Lawrence, her perfect, firstborn son. That was pain enough for a lifetime. Then I’d inflicted more—running off to New York, getting a divorce. It had been years since we’d exchanged harsh words, but I was filled with regret. I promised myself that when she got out, I’d be a better daughter. More attentive. And more patient.
I took her hand and squeezed it before leaning over to kiss her forehead, which tasted salty and warm. “I have to go now,” I said, measuring my words carefully. I’ll be back soon.”
I slowly pulled back. The face looking back at me was stricken with fear.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
On hearing those words, my heart wrenched. I knew I couldn’t stay, but I didn’t want to go. All I wanted to do was reach down, swoop her up, and carry her away—somewhere, anywhere she might escape this personal hell.
“It’s okay, Mama. It’ll be okay.”
But would it? Would she ever get better? I wasn’t so sure.
“Please,” she begged. Her tone was desperate.
Now all I wanted to do was run away.
I let out a heavy sigh and the tears started to flow. Not knowing what else to do, I started walking toward the door. One step forward, two back, as if a chain was tethering me to her heart. My resolve was weakening. I had to leave quickly or it would be impossible to leave at all.
“Bye, Mama,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “I love you.”
I made my way out of her room and walked quickly down the hall toward the locked metal door. If I could just get on the other side, I’d be okay.
“Laura! Don’t leave me here!” I heard a voice call after me.
I shut my eyes and pressed the button.
“Don’t leave me!” she called again. This time it was more insistent.
The door opened with a click and I walked through, shutting out the voice as the door closed behind me. I stood motionless. Everything around me felt cold and opaque, as if I’d been dropped into a dark, murky ocean, miles from shore, with no sense of how to find my way back.”
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Can you describe the emotional process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? When my writing coach and I were reviewing this scene, she asked me how long I’d visited that day. I told her about ten minutes. She told me it read as though I’d walked in, stayed for two minutes, and then left. Then she said, “Go back in that room, make yourself stay there, and write about what you were feeling.” So I did. It was excruciating because it dredged up all the heartache I was experiencing that day. It also made that scene so much better. Sitting with our emotions as we write—especially the most painful ones—can be a powerful tool. It’s the only way to actually transfer that raw emotion onto the page.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? No. As I mentioned above, I actually added to this scene. It now feels more true to my actual experience.
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