Jeanne Denault is in my writers group, The Rebel Writers of Bucks County.
Her memoir Sucking Up Yellow Jackets has just released from O-Books and it's a funny, witty and sometimes poignant account of her raising a son with Aspergers Syndrome.
From climbing out of his cot within a few months of his birth to climbing a telephone wire hand over hand high above their terraced home in Philadelphia and then, as a teenager, dismantling a motor cycle simply because his mother demanded he had to get rid of it and he took that to mean literally, Jeanne depicts in precise, wry prose what it was like to bring up this super intelligent child at a time when Asperger's wasn't even understood by the medical community. She thought she was going mad or had spawned the devil's child.
Jeanne and her family moved around the states while Max was growing up--Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Illinois where Jeanne's attempts to fit in among the 'meat and potatoes' women of the area drew their scorn when she made a gourmet dish featuring a mild curry sauce for a block party and incited their wrath. The family relocated to Pennsylvania again after Max had a few run-ins with the local police and judges. His teachers, some of his counselors and even her husband blamed her for some of his excesses.
A fast, dazzling and very enjoyable read.
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Tuesday
Turning it over
Yesterday afternoon after a marathon session--and it was a marathon session with no interruptions permitted and the imbibing of lots of cups of rich, fragrant Puerto Rican coffee, no switching over to the internet at the flick of a button (the peril of having high speed) to check pinging emails or surf fav' sites--I finished the first draft of what is still called America and Me:The first two years.
(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)
It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.
I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.
It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.
(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)
It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.
I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.
It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.
Saturday
Getting it done
I just LOVE productive weeks and this week has been such a week and it's not yet over.
A friend, Jessica, opened a smart, upmarket ladies boutique in town a few weeks ago and she asked me to help compose a press release she wanted to send to the newspapers and magazines, which I did. It's great to be able to help friends when they begin new exciting ventures. Hope it does its job!!
And I settled down and did a serious--I mean serious--amount of work on America and Me, the memoir I'm currently writing. The word count is now 55,300 and I'm now at Chapter 20--yes 19 whole chapters have been written--and I think I'll be able to complete the latest today. I'm going to work my arse off this afternoon and do it.
I'm having laughs and bouts of sadness writing it. And it's strange and thought-provoking going over old correspondence and uncovering documents in files that were once vital and critical and celebrated profusely--like notifications that I'd passed the Bar examination, etc--and realizing they've lost that vitality and importance.
Of course, once the memoir is completed, the really tough work begins because editing and redrafting is an essential part of the process. An essential, necessary pain in the arse.
A friend, Jessica, opened a smart, upmarket ladies boutique in town a few weeks ago and she asked me to help compose a press release she wanted to send to the newspapers and magazines, which I did. It's great to be able to help friends when they begin new exciting ventures. Hope it does its job!!
And I settled down and did a serious--I mean serious--amount of work on America and Me, the memoir I'm currently writing. The word count is now 55,300 and I'm now at Chapter 20--yes 19 whole chapters have been written--and I think I'll be able to complete the latest today. I'm going to work my arse off this afternoon and do it.
I'm having laughs and bouts of sadness writing it. And it's strange and thought-provoking going over old correspondence and uncovering documents in files that were once vital and critical and celebrated profusely--like notifications that I'd passed the Bar examination, etc--and realizing they've lost that vitality and importance.
Of course, once the memoir is completed, the really tough work begins because editing and redrafting is an essential part of the process. An essential, necessary pain in the arse.
Friday
Stirring memories
Been reading John Grogan's Marley and Me (he's a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer) while on the elliptical at the gym. It's about he and his family's life with their labrador and it's a very interesting and entertaining read because their dog was large for his size and a bit mental. I'm coming now toward the end and Marley is old, arthritic and coming to the end of his life.
Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.
Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.
Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.
Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.
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