22/2021

Who among us doesn’t struggle with fear? I wonder if I’ve been honest about mine — my fear of failure, my fear of not measuring up, my fear of making the art I know I should and need to make. The truth is, I’m terrified that I’m going to get slaughtered for writing a memoir about life with my son. There are many who believe a writer shouldn’t write about her children, especially when the children can’t say whether or not they want to be written about. 

I’ve mined the territory of family matters since the very beginning. I look back on ten records, and there is no other subject of such deep concern — not romantic love, not rebellion, not the state of the world. What has been worthy of diligent study for me has been the area of kith and kin, suffused with drama and fascinating ailments as it is. Maybe it’s been the low-hanging fruit. And maybe it’s my obsession, my karma, and what I’m supposed to wrestle with this time around. Maybe it’s all of that. Whatever it is, I’ve finally gotten the message — this is the work that comes to me so this is the work I’m supposed to be doing and evolving. This is the work that will evolve me. 

I started writing “I Dream He Talks to Me” in 2016. I didn’t mean to. I was in my second year of graduate school, earning an MFA in Creative Writing while trying to finish my first book, and had an essay to turn in for my non-fiction workshop. I was struggling with writing about something I can’t even remember now, but I do remember what made me delete it all on a Sunday morning and then quickly form what I’d ultimately turn in and use as part of the pitch for yet another memoir — the extreme situation that was right in front of me that day, as it was on all days. The extreme situation that I felt alone in, the extreme situation that I found so hard to explain to others who hadn’t lived our 24/7 with us for at least a 24/7, the extreme situation that not only debilitated me some days but also left me panic-strickenly riding an emotional roller coaster, the extreme situation affecting my son’s life in an almost unspeakably profound way. I knew it mattered. I knew others were living it just like I was. Most importantly, my son was living it.

The introduction to the book is a letter to John Henry explaining why I’ve written about our lives. Here’s a portion:

I can’t remember who it was that once said to me, “You’re one of those people with one of those lives,” but I do remember not being able to argue that urgent and important things have happened. They still do. Those happenings inevitably require a response from me, and the best one I can offer is to try to turn them and their effects into something I can present back and whisper, “Here’s what I’ve faced. Here’s what I’ve learned from it. You are not alone in how you feel. No matter what it is, it can be okay.” That’s the most honorable way I’ve figured out how to be of help or service in this world. More than any other person or event, you have taught me, and you have changed me just by being you. You have been doing that since the day you were born. You will continue to do that until the day I die. So I can’t imagine keeping to myself what a profound effect you’ve had on who I am. That is the most urgent and important of all the things that have happened. I figure you’re okay with people knowing that and understand that if I left you out of the stories I tell, I’d be leaving them mostly untold because you are, in fact, the constant coauthor of my life now.

He may read it one day, or who knows, maybe he already has. 

There are all sorts of artists. But I’m the kind who makes art directly from life and I reckon that’s regardless of how it leaves me shaking and gasping for air. I’ve always said I had no need for fiction when the real stuff has such sharp teeth — who could make this mess up? I can only hope that I will be forgiven by those whose lives intertwine familially with mine as I continue to be fascinated by roots and their resulting branches and report on them. I hope I will be forgiven by my son most of all.

Sending love everywhere,

AM