Yes it is hard....

There are days when the words just flow. Stories coming flooding out of me, funny and sad. These days I love and when I read back on what I have written I feel good. This week has brought two big and unexpected things. Firstly I have been talking to a Bosnian woman. I have heard and learnt more about her experience of the war (among other things). She was in the US at the time but has since spent time back home. She hated the peacekeepers - I can understand why and we knew we were far from loved by everyone. It's been good to chat with her.
I am not sure if it will go in the book exactly as it is written yet but I have also written about Michelle and I breaking up (this process started while I was still in Bosnia). It made me cry - alot. While we've long ago mended those bridges writing about it had me so vividly recall how I felt at the time and how I destroyed that relationship. It also had me realise that I have never forgiven myself for the way I behaved. Nothing she or anyone else can say will change this -sometimes we just get to live with the past - this is one of those times. If anyone is concerned Michelle is heavily involved in writing the book (not actually writing it but she is my ghost editor). While it seems so very personal our story is an important part of the book and she will have read everything I say. Autobiography is both self indugent and cathartic. I am, surprisingly for me, very up for the whole emotional journey.

Details details details

In the absence of the background material I need I had thought I was all but finished writing up the "stories" - mad, sad, bad, funny - or at least the ones I could remember. Nada, that is clearly not how biography works. Ticking in the back of my mind was a comment made several weeks ago about how people, especially women, will be interested in the detail. What were the bathroom facilities like, how did you get tampons, shampoo, how did you wash your clothes? That is what I have been writing about today. There were very good reasons why our uniforms went from bright, fresh green to a dull, dusty grey. There are very good reasons why,when it comes to bathrooms, I have an extremely high tolerance for filth - in all its forms. Procuring tampons and shampoo is less mysterious. Sitting in my nice tidy room, clean clothes and a functioning bathroom I am writing about what it is like not to have those niceties. In these moments I can smell and taste it, sometimes, when I am deeply emersed in it I can feel the grime in my pores. Reading some of the Gulf War and Iraq bios it is those moments I really relate to - they are the hidden deprivations, the things that have us awed when we return to the real world. Now, suddenly, I am "us" - these are the things we have in common, regardless of gender or sexuality.

A room of one's own

This entire post has been prompted by a conversation with a near stranger who, by the end of the conversation, no longer felt like one. Her simple inquiry was "where do I write" prompting me to reflect on being right here. Variously known as "A Writers Den" or "El Cheapo Accommodation in Santa Cruz", depending on how romantic you want to be about it all. Because I have long ago accepted that I am right where I am supposed to be I can also appreciate that hanging on my walls is the very same art that hung in my home from 1993 to 1995. The art belongs to my first girlfriend who was with me when I was sent to Bosnia and, in a strange twist, I am now storing it for her! It was also through her that I found a home from which to write. For now it is in everyway perfect. When it is no longer what I need I will leave.
I've also been in touch again with one of my old Officer Cadet classmates - they are making a DVD of the 20th reunion (held last year) and including photos from our time at OCS. Having opened the door the past rushes in and prompts me to continue the path I have chosen.
At every turn the world feels right and ripe to be whatever I choose. My ambitions are twofold but, at this minute, the priority is to write "the" book and I am.

Life gets in the way

I haven't written for the last nine days as I was too busy celebrating a friend getting her phd, so today I have spent most of the day reading through what I have written. It's a good process. Best of all I am reasonably happy with two of the chapters I had been working hard on before the celebrations began. It makes me nervous when I haven't written for a while. You lose focus and your stream of thought - your voice disappears and it takes time to get it back. Next month I am planning to get some chapters to the publishers so really need to get my focus back. I am also going to get some of the background material I need from NZ as my memory is fading. It's easy to remember the big stories (you know, funny, sad, bad, mad) but not so easy to get the dates and times right and I know there are some things I have forgotten..........

Happier times

Okay this is chirpier. I have remodelled an entire chapter, it didn't work and now I think it does! Simple simple simple - it pays to remind myself. To help keep me on track there are two things I have been doing. One, I have a notebook, everytime a forgotten story or idea pops into my head I write it down. It is proving to be a great resource for story telling. The other thing I do is read other women's autobiographies. I've just finished "Love my rifle more than you". It's very different from the last biography I read, which was written from the perspective of an officer. Kayla (the author), who ultimately becomes a sergeant, gives a lot of insight into what life was like in Iraq but what really gets in the way is that it isn't very well written. She leaves us hanging in places.......I want to know about what she thought and felt. Still it's worth a read and gave me new fodder for my own blockbuster! Oh and I reserve being too critical - hers has been published.

The past and the future

Today I cried. I was writing and momentarily transported back in time. Autobiography is a very personal process. It’s not enough to simply chronicle the journey, it’s not even enough to tell a story; it must be told in a particular way and it must be told honestly, with feeling. I cried because I was telling the story of coming home, how afraid I had been to leave a place I knew to return to place I didn’t. In the simple telling of the story I was transported back in time and feeling. It also grounded me in the present. Right now, today, I am afraid to return to New Zealand. I haven’t yet discovered who I am. I feel exactly the way I did 12 years ago – I feel like I have completed a second tour and that I am at the beginning of my life again - only this time I am in charge.