In the early 1970s my brother-in-law, Mark, published a pornographic novel. No one I knew had read it, except my sister. She said that Mark’s book contained graphic sex every few pages because an agent told him that sex sells. It didn’t for Mark. At a family gathering shortly after the publication, a small group of us surrounded the proud new author. My devoutly religious mother was curious about Mark’s creative process.
“Where do you get your ideas for your books?” Mom asked, naively. “Do they come to mind when you’re in bed?”
Those standing nearby who’d heard about the book’s steamy sex scenes stifled their chuckles. Mark muttered something that satisfied Mom’s curiosity and I steered the conversation away to something less embarrassing.
I smile recalling my mother’s question now that I’m about to begin my third memoir. I’m writing from my favorite place—in my bed. The most creative phrasing for my books happens when I’m installed in my double-wide bed with my laptop sitting on my crossed legs. I’ve completed two memoirs supported by the bed’s ten inches of memory foam. Leaning into the bed’s tilted, adjustable, upright back, I feel as if I’m caressed by the warm, sturdy arms of a lover. My mind relaxes and remembrances from my past bubble up into consciousness.
Of course, sitting relaxed and ready to recall, doesn’t bring me all I need to write about the captivating parts of my life. Journals, letters, and assorted memorabilia that I’ve saved over the past decades, stimulate my memory of significant events. New reminiscences arise as I read the entries from my high school diaries and Peace Corps journals.
When I re-read my earliest writing for the first time fourteen years ago, I recognized my adventures in Montana, Mexico, and Peru might make an interesting book. I spread my ten journals over my bed and read. Ideas percolated up from my unconscious as soon as I slipped into my comfortable two-sided foam envelope. In August 2020, after numerous rewrites, Between Inca Walls was finally published.
As I completed that first memoir, I discovered I didn’t want to stop writing. Long forgotten memories about my life demanded to be found and connected. And the readers of my first memoir wanted to know what happened after my wedding in Peru. So, I took to my bed again and kept writing the next phase of my story.
The unconscious part of my psyche awakened, but this time no journals existed to help me recall my life’s important happenings. Then, hidden away in a bottom desk drawer, I stumbled upon a packet containing the Christmas letters I’d sent out every year for the past forty-two years. My heart leapt when I read them. They revealed the important events in my life that had happened each year.
Day after day, sitting comfortably on my memory foam magic mattress, forgotten incidents and feelings emerged from deep within my soul. I saw how unusual experiences throughout my life connected to explain who I’d been and who I’d become. I relived the joy of my children’s births and the sorrow of my brother’s death.
This time, the writing process was easier. I’d learned the craft of writing an intriguing book. When writing my first book, I’d joined the National Association of Memoir Writers (NAMW.org), the CWC (California Writers Club.org), read scores of books on writing, and taken numerous classes on the writing craft. For ten years I’d participated in writing critique groups. Now, during the pandemic, I found groups of other writers on-line who could critique my chapters.
After developmental, copy, and proof editing, I had another memoir I could be proud of. I thank the journals, holiday letters, fellow writers—and my memory foam bed.
