Today I read a fascinating memoir by the poet Frederick Seidel in the November issue of Harper's, in which the poet declaims on his love of motorcycles. I still have absolutely no desire to own--or even to ride--a motorcycle, but I now have a better appreciation of the motivations of someone who does.
Here's the sentence that struck me most: "I had to explain this mortifying event to myself and to the world." Seidel is referring to a terrible accident he had while riding a motorcycle in Vermont. But this sentence explains the urge--inexplicable to those who do not have it--for any writer (and other artists) to publicly grapple with difficult personal experiences.
Certainly I have done that this year, as part of my process for coping with and healing from the divorce. I could have written in a diary, or perhaps just emailed with close family and friends (I used email a lot too). But I was compelled to be public even though I didn't have to.
Why? For the most part it was simply the compulsion to share, as Seidel expresses so well. Growing up, pre-Web, I gravitated early and strongly to the personal essay as the most elemental form of writing. I devour novels and am moved by poems, but nothing strikes a chord for me as much as a life laid bare on the page or screen.
I tried not to blog everything that came to mind, saving up my insights for when they seemed substantial. And I decided to stop writing about the divorce altogether on the day it was official. There is no doubt in my mind that I would be less whole today if I hadn't done this. Blogging was my catharsis.
An unanticipated, but gratifying, effect of the public aspect of my writing is that it helped others. (This benefit seems obvious in retrospect, but I wasn't thinking about it at the time.) One day a college friend, who is now a church minister, wrote to say that my posts were proving helpful as he counseled couples who are having difficulties in his church. He appreciated my candor, which brought tears to his eyes. And he felt that since I could be so honest about what I was going through, I had a good chance of coming out a stronger person on the other side.
I hope so, and I know so. And the truth is that I would not trade a minute of my time with Helen, because it made me who I am today. For as Jack Gilbert asks, "How can they say the marriage failed?"
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