Autobiographical writing, I find, is a healthy occupation—an avocation, practice, hobby or habit, not necessarily a job or vocation. It works my brain in several different ways. For one, I’m rewiring some very old neural pathways that haven’t been fired up for decades. It’s both satisfying to recoup a memory and frustrating to realize there was more to it than I remember. But it’s also a pleasant surprise when one memory sparks another, or two or three. I don’t even have to try, they just emerge.

Second, when places, people and events just won’t come into focus, I research them on the internet or ask friends for help. If I’m successful, fuzzy images sharpen, faded colors freshen and often I learn things I never knew. Historical detail adds substance and credibility to the narrative. Sometimes surprising factoids turn up, offbeat treats for my readers (assuming there are any; if not, they’re treats for me, anyway).

And finally, writing is a creative act. I have to imagine how the story will unfold, how to construct the sentences and what words to use. There are hundreds of edits and multiple rewrites as the story shapes and reshapes itself in my mind. Sometimes I sit down in front of the keyboard and haven’t a clue what to write. So, I just start free associating ideas and images until words start appearing, Fragments arrange themselves into phrases, then sentences. The progression from free association to sentences isn’t particularly easy, though. It’s mental, but it feels like work! Still, it’s the only way to move forward, so I persevere. If I’m lucky, at the end of the day I’ll have a paragraph or two that makes sense, feels right. Or not. So, I start over the next day.

I don’t write expecting to publish, and yet I hope others will read my words and feel something resonate. Maybe I’m looking for validation, the praise I didn’t get from my parents. But I try to write for its own sake, too, like meditation. There are moments when the ego recedes, and the words take on a life of their own. Art for art’s sake. And for my sake. Writing is another form of therapy.