I’ve been playing with the idea of writing a memoir for at least a year. I so much want to explore what I perceived as my grandmother’s dislike of her second child (my father), and subsequently of my mother and us kids. But I can’t seem to get past that infernal internal editor who keeps staring over my shoulder, whispering deterrents about disapprovals of — or even hurt from — descendants of the people I would write about. In fact, it’s a challenge for me to write that prior sentence about my grandmother. My push me/pull you dilemma has much to do with being raised never to air one’s dirty laundry etc.(A stage whispered aside to Mary McD.: Thank you for your encouragement; I needed it!)
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