The Memoir Critter

I knew I could never bond with a memoir, but I underestimated how determined it was to have me.

I’ll never forget the moment I first met it. I was deep in the snores of a good night’s sleep when I felt that initial nudge. Holding tight to the soft-foggy dream I was rather committed to, I opened one eye to glance at the clock.

2:39a.m.

Satisfied that it was still the middle-of-the-night, I retucked Teddy the Bear under my chin and pushed my face deeper into the feathers of the pillow.

The next nudge was more of a shove.

Sleep bolted and I groaned. I sat upright in the pitch darkness, looking for the sad, lost child that must have woken me, but there was none. I shook my head, and leaned back on one elbow, more than ready to be prone again, when it whispered the first phrase to me.

I nodded. It was a good phrase. I would remember it in the morning.

But no! It repeated the phrase, louder this time.

Sigh. I reached blindly for the pen and small notebook I keep bedside and scribbled down the words that were now running mantra through my mind.

There! I had captured the critter! Now penned, it was safe until morning—the real morning where the sun is up and the children are begging for breakfast. I reached over to set the mischievous prowler down and beckoned for sleep to return to me when the sneaky varmint crawled back into the bed beside me, knocking Teddy the Bear to the floor. Thoughtful moonbeams slanted through the window, improving my vision, and I glanced at my nocturnal visitor. That was when I saw it in its entirety.

The Story bounced up and down on the edge of the bed, grinning at me.

Apprehension filled me, but I reached out cautiously and patted the little Story gently on the head.

It quivered as I stroked it onto the notepad in tight scribbles I couldn’t see. And as it pushed closer to me, I jotted it down faster. The lines squiggled in crooked lines all over the page, but I knew that I would be able to recognize what I needed when I looked it over in the morning.

I finished up and The Story curled up against me, finally nodding off to its own dreams, breathing slow, but deep and steady at last.

My life hasn’t been the same since.

I didn’t like it. In fact, I ignored The Story when it was still there—sitting on the bedside shelf—the next morning. It followed me to the kitchen and begged with wide eyes. I stepped around it. And when it chased me down the drive later that day, I shooed it away with grand gestures and threatening shouts.

I wasn’t having it. I couldn’t.

I knew how it worked with strays. If you let them in and feed them, they never leave. It happens all the time. A career in zookeeping, and my ever-bleeding heart had taught me that over the years.

But why were these strays always so damned desperate? They never show up on your door stoop well-fed, potty-trained and full grown. They are always starving orphans that appear in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year. This is exactly how we’d acquired our last cat. It was a sub-zero Canadian night just past Christmas when the skinny little kitten started scratching on our sliding glass door, meowing pitifully. When we opened it, she marched right in, rubbed against our 80-pound hound (adopted from the humane society 10 years previous), let our three kids cuddle her, and immediately set straight our tomcat (found abandoned in the forest, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand...) about who would be in charge from then on.

I knew better than to let The Story stay. 

This was the one Story I could never keep. I would never be able to nurture such an idea—never be able to give it the love, attention, and exercise it deserved. It would starve with me. I couldn’t afford the doctor’s visits it would require, nor the vaccinations necessary to protect The Story—as well as my friends and family—once it was exposed to social expectations and criticism.

But only the truly heartless would leave it out in the cold to die a slow and painful death. So, like the kitten two years ago, I took it in—just until someone else claimed it, I swear. I’d call the neighbors, post signs around town. But under no circumstances would I name it. That’s when you get attached and this was only temporary.

I allowed it to wander through my mind, hanging on my every spare moment, trying to distract me from the ins and outs of my safe and predictable life. I ignored it the best I could, giving it a bit of food—and just the cheap stuff, nothing fancy—a phrase here, and a sentence there. It was really just enough to keep it alive, you know. And when days strung into a week, and then two, well that paragraph didn’t cost me too much, now did it? Besides, I couldn’t have the little critter bored and making ambiguous sentences, could I? It was a baby and all babies needed something to play with. I wasn’t a cruel person. A paragraph or two just made good, plain sense.

To be honest, I’d waited most of my life meet a good Story. In fact, I’d begged for one for years. Although I’d met an Idea or two over the years, it had never been more than a passing acquaintance. I would spend time with the playful creatures, but never seemed to bond with any of them, nor they with me. It had to be the right one—a perfect match.

You see, I never wanted any part of the Nonfiction species. My real love was Fiction. I’d love to get a Novel, or a Short Story—maybe even breed a pair and sell their litters. And my secret desire? A fairy tale. Now that would be a dream come true! I’ve always had a weakness for such magical little fantasies. But Creative Nonfiction? No thank you. Never! They were too messy, and rather ugly, if you want the truth. Plus, I’d heard enough tales about how much trouble they can cause—chewing up families, digging up secrets, and whatnot. Smart little creatures, to be sure, but quite destructive. Nope. That was not for me.

But I am only human, and The Story was kind of cute following me around with big, sad eyes and those tousled adjectives. When it thought I wasn’t looking, it would strut around boldly until one memory or another would startle it back into a trembling mass of nerves hiding under the bed. And I couldn’t help but giggle over the unexpected turns of phrase that would sometimes slip out of it.

Well, the neighbors never did admit to knowing who The Story belonged to, and I never got any calls about a lost Story, so I figured it was up to me to find a good home for it. I decided to feed it a little longer while I asked around if anyone wanted The Story before I had to take it to the trash. I mean, it was a pretty good little Story, with potential to turn into a full-grown manuscript with the right care. I wouldn’t want it to get in the wrong hands and be mistreated. And since I’d gotten better acquainted, I knew its quirks and idiosyncrasies. That face that was so ugly when I first met it? Now it just seems interesting—unique. A face the right mother could truly love. It’s really a rather charming Story when it comes down to it.

That was four years ago, and the Story is full grown and fat now—sitting on my desk as I tap away on the computer. We’ve had our struggles, The Story and I, fighting over who was truly in charge. (The Story won more battles than I, and I grudgingly had to admit it was always right.)

It took me many weeks after that first meeting to finally cave in and give The Story a name. In fact, it was months before I could even say it out loud. As much as I tried to deny it, or change what it was (by making it prettier, easier to handle), The Story had become mine, and I belonged to it. I gave it the only name that fit—my Memoir.

I am proud of my Memoir, the nocturnal little Story that came to me in the throes of my dreams, bouncing with excitement and quivering with fear in turn. We’ve grown together, the two of us, and come to a point where we accept one another and all that makes us unique in this world. I know there will be times in the future that we will face hard times still—for Memoir is ready to go out into the great, wide world alone now—but now I trust that we have each other’s best interests at heart, as well as that of our family and friends. Together we’ve been able to define our goals for the greater good of others, so the struggle has been worth the effort. As my beloved Memoir makes its own way out into society, I will do my best to introduce it to good people, the kind that will be friends for a lifetime and that, like me, only want the very best for my Memoir. I want it to meet people who are in a place to help make that happen. I will protect it to the best of my ability, but also give it space to grow and blossom under the influence of others. I look forward to seeing who it can become, the lives it may touch, and the hearts it may capture, just as it captured mine one night so long ago.

Go forth, little Memoir. Go get your life!