Writing a book is not an easy task. But the more books you write, the less daunting it becomes. I recall being approached to write my first family history and feeling anxious. I’d written numerous profiles, but I’d never written an entire book. I thought about what was involved, convinced myself to write a series of features, and transform them into a book. That’s exactly what I did.
“Our dogs look just like the Bobbsey twins,” I announced while admiring our two standard poodles cuddled on their beds.
“Who?” my husband asked.
“The Bobbsey twins. Did you ever read the Bobbsey twins books when you were growing up,” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“How about the Nancy Drew or Hardy boys’ mysteries?” I asked.
“A couple,” he said.
“What about the Childcraft series?” I pursued.
“Can we stop this, please?” he asked. “I played sports outside, but I don’t think I read as much as you did.”
“Maybe New Jersey’s ice-cold winters or hot, humid summers played a role,” I responded. “I played outside a lot, too, but I spent hours and hours inside reading. I would even read while watching television.
“In the summer I’d walk down the street to the Hillside Public Library and borrow a stack of books. Two weeks later I’d return them and borrow another stack. Reading was my great joy. I’d read before bed, on rainy days, or when no one was available to play. I kept myself entertained.
“When my parents commissioned my bedroom furniture, they made sure to include two bookshelves for my book collection. I could enter my room and discover entire new worlds inside my books.
“But our best books were stored in the attic. We owned leather-bound copies of classic authors: Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain and more. Going up to the attic became a special treat. I could just sit among the beautiful books and skim through them until told to come downstairs. Sadly, the books were sold, along with my piano, bedroom furniture, and many other treasures when my father lost my mother’s family fortune.”
“Maybe that’s why you became a writer,” my husband noted.
“I think it is,” I answered. “I’ve always loved good books.”
Many times during my nearly two-decade career as a personal historian, people have approached me and said that they should write a book.
“Why?” I’ve always asked.
Their responses have varied, but they included life lessons and values they wished to share, helping and honoring others, surviving insurmountable odds, finding careers about which they were passionate, demonstrating the importance of service, hoping to put their lives in order after being diagnosed with serious illnesses, and sharing their successes.
Some of the stories I agreed to write pro bono. I could not refuse the woman who was nearly 100 years old and had lived in two centuries, experiencing many changes, or the young wife and mother suffering from metastatic cancer.
I was paid well for other tales, but I often think I learned more and earned more than money from my work. I found common themes that touched all lives, and I discovered that most families have issues, some more than others. By helping other people tell their stories, I found a way to make sense of my own life and decided that my story might help others. That’s why I began writing my own series of memoirs, beginning with What Lies Within.
Recently I discovered a book of essays by memoirists that included Annie La Mott and Cheryl Strayed, titled Why We Write About Ourselves. The book’s contributors wrote about different themes and events, but all seemed to agree that one reason they wrote about themselves was to help others.
I hope that my tales will do the same.
The year 1960, which commenced on a high note, began nearly a decade of decline as our family secrets slowly revealed themselves. With each new revelation, I lost a bit of my childhood. By the time I was twelve, I had to behave like an adult and accept grown-up responsibilities, although my emotional maturity remained that of a teenager. (more…)
Last week I read the obituary of my cousin Milton,* whose family played a pivotal role in my memoir What Lies Within. He was 87 years old and left a large, loving family and a beautiful legacy behind. We lost touch more than 50 years ago, but my memories of our good times together remain.
I adored his parents, who were so kind to my mother and me when we moved from New Jersey to California. They were transplants from Philadelphia, and I’d seen them at family circle meetings throughout my childhood until they moved west to live closer to their sons. Despite being related to my father and my parents’ recent separation, they welcomed us warmly.
Their sons Stanley* and Milton lived nearby, and I had a crush on Stanley as a child. He sang at family circle gatherings and his beautiful voice might have led to professional performances today, but in the sixties, the television shows, the Internet, and YouTube did not exist to showcase talented people who could sing. Stanley could also write, and his clever musical revue, garnered a backers’ audition to try to raise funds to produce it. Today he might have begun a funding campaign, but Stanley passed away in 2010. With him went his talent.
Milton was a renowned physician, and I looked up to him and his beautiful wife Leila. I enjoyed spending time with them and their four children in their home in Downey and later in their more expansive home in Whittier. Once I babysat their children while Milton and Leila had an evening out. My cousins were only a few years younger than I, and we played and talked all evening until I had to enforce bedtimes. Since my Milton and Leila arrived home late, I spent the night at their house.
When Leila drove me home the next morning, she said, “Libby, if anything happens to your mother, you can live with us.”
I thought her offer odd and was shocked by her words. It never occurred to me that my mother might die. I knew she was ill and had been hospitalized for months, but at fifteen I could not imagine losing my mother. Too many people had departed from my life; my sister left home when I was thirteen and my father died when I was fourteen. I tried hard to forget her words, but they pervaded my thoughts for months. A naïve high school freshman, I had no idea what the future held.
*name omitted