Healing with Books

I went to hear Connie May Fowler speak yesterday. She is a great Florida author that writes about some really dark subjects, but in a funny way (see why I like her?). The talk was held in the building where Mise En Place restaurant now stands. It used to be an really run down apartment building. Connie lived there in the late 80's while she went to the University of Tampa on a scholarship. I had recently reread her memoir for the 3rd time. She described the scenery off Kennedy Blvd back in the late 80's. It has been cleaned up considerably. I remember when I first moved into Hyde Park at that time and there was the Hyde Park Rapist. It was a scary place. Now it is where all the rich folk live. 

There was a huge turnout for her presentation. I noticed that Connie became tearful numerous times during the Q & A period. I could see that being back in the building where she was abused and watched her Mother drink herself to death was getting to her. One of my goals in this blog is to turn shitty personal stories to just stories. Sometimes I will test it. I go back and read the stories about figuring out that John cheated or the way I felt when I first moved back to Tampa. I no longer get anxious. It's just words. I was still so intrigued how upset she seemed being back in Tampa. I raised my hand to ask a question. I told her I had just reread her memoir and I found that reading her story made me anxious for her--my hands would sweat and my heart would race as I read about the abusive asshole she lived with during the 80s. I told her I had once read a quote that an author deals with heartbreak by making the story into literature. I asked her when she reread experts from her memoir did she find that they still upset her or was it now literature? I don't recall her exact answer--it was very eloquent, but she essentially said she is back in the feeling when she reads it.

It made me wonder if I can ever completely escape the memories? Perhaps I can not compare myself to Connie. Her memories are in her stories. Her stories are her love and they are how she makes her living.

Ironically, rereading her memoir, Before Katie Wakes, brought up some really horrible memories for me. I had left home at 17 and moved with a boyfriend who was very abusive (he conveniently hid this until after I lived with him for 6 months). I'm going to have to think about whether I want to write about him. I escaped him when I was 21. Thank God for the 2 really nice guys that followed him. Through the years memories of my time with this guy would crop up and I would immediately suppress them. I remember reading Before Women Had Wings and Before Katie Wakes and having the revelation that I could put this shit in the past. It was really great to hear Connie May Fowler speak yesterday. As she signed my book, I leaned over and whispered something in her ear. It made her smile really big. It's like when you make a wish when you blow out your birthday candles. I will never tell what I said.