Exceptional a contest entry, biographical nonfiction Behind The Mask - Who I Am by Dawn Munro Non-Fiction Writing Contest contest entry

I struggled over writing for this contest at all, unless I was to write something very generic. But then I thought it would be nice to give something of me to my family and friends, and what better way to do it? I haven't a lot of family left, but what is left should know a little about their cousin, aunt, sister, and great aunt that they might not already know. FanStory friends have asked about my life several times too -- it's time I answered. But let's not confuse a biography with all nonfiction writing. One is impersonal and should not be upsetting in any way. The other is potentially a direct assault on the author's personality when reviewed, and introspective writing that is often cathartic. Biographical writing is putting 'out there' information that no stranger has any business insisting should be written -- there is a huge difference between critiquing creative writing and critiquing personal information. But it is also gutsy, very gutsy if it is any good -- it must be done by choice, and only when the writer is ready to face certain things he or she might not have faced yet about his or her own life and personal experiences. I have written a lot of fiction and nonfiction in my life, but writing biographically, or in this case, I guess a memoir, is much more difficult, especially for publication on a website like FanStory. There are rules about defending one's work, and some members don't know how to harness their ink. Nonfiction is comparatively easy for me -- a cookbook, a textbook or a how-to manual or article is all nonfictional 'fact' writing. Biographical scribing is opening up a vein -- writing about things not meant to be 'critiqued' by the general public. I am not at all the person I appear to be in writing -- in fact I am actually quite shy. I hesitate to admit that because someone once told me that shyness is a definite sign of a lack of confidence. It is never easy to face our inner demons. But if I am honest, I do lack confidence in some areas of my life, though you often wouldn't know it because I'm pretty good at bluffing. I've been challenged by a few writers whose work I deeply respect and admire to write about my life though, so here it is. And before you ask, yes, I have written a few bits and pieces before now. I guess those friends who've encouraged me didn't read those pieces. Why anybody would really care, I can't imagine, but I'm told if I don't or won't write about a few of my private challenges, my writing isn't honest enough, isn't raw enough. I don't think they're one hundred percent correct, those friends with good intentions -- after all, aren't there writers who write creatively, inventing characters and stories so authentic they resonate with readers? But my friends are certainly right in one way -- writing about ourselves forces introspection, and that's never a bad thing. I'll try not to scoff at the idea that not being willing to put my private affairs out on a world-wide web where it will never vanish makes me a poor writer. I'll try not to react to reviews that challenge me personally, and not my writing, either. I know it really is a way to grow as a writer. When you've been wounded in past, though, it's hard to reveal much if you have any grey matter inside your thick cranium -- the weaknesses you reveal can be used against you. (There really are some cruel people out in the world just dying to raise their own self esteem by putting someone else down.) What I'm going to say next may surprise you, but in fact, as intimidated as I might be in a one-on-one situation, I've always had no problem 'performing' in public, whether it be giving a speech or a presentation, acting on a stage -- any kind of interaction that wasn't 'personal'. I tried to write about that aspect of my life once, how it shaped who I am, but what I wrote was met with scalding scorn by someone who used it to label me as conceited. I guess my attempt sounded arrogant, so that just goes to show that even though we might be good at writing some things, some others can be dismal failures. I had been trying to show how I'd grown up, encouraged to perform, and how music and theatre became such a large part of my life. The cruelties of the world at large and the spite of some people can be very depressing. It doesn't have to be the huge issues, like global warming or homelessness -- sometimes it's the personal stuff. I was labelled that day in the minds of people I have never met, as a show-off, a diva. That kind of gossip hurts, regardless of how we tell ourselves that it doesn't matter, that those are virtual strangers and in reality, have no bearing on our 'real' lives. Everyone wants and needs acceptance, and there are just some things that should never be said. For the most part, I am a happy person, an optimist, but I am also able to dive into character, so to speak, as FanStory friends know well, thanks to some of the sorrowful romance poems I write. But here's the truth -- I'm not happy all of the time. Is anyone? I just work hard at appearing to be because it's that abyss thing -- I believe the abyss is not only capable of looking back at us, as Nietzsche said, but of sending demons to plague our lives. So I work hard at keeping my mind on positive thoughts and avoiding, as much as I can, those people who would use me as a trash receptacle for all their own complaints and problems. It helps. Does that sound less than compassionate? I don't believe it should. We all have our crosses to bear, and people with whom we share common experiences. I don't think we should allow just anyone to use us as dumping grounds for troubles, especially people with whom we share little in common. Of course, that precludes creative writing. There's nothing like a good tear-jerker to help relieve the tension of real-life tears. If that wasn't true, why are there so many sad ballads, so many films like Sophie's Choice and Love Story, so many books filled with conflict? I work hard at keeping my mask in place, even for me. I live in dread when I allow myself to think about people and things I've lost and what's left to lose. There's not a lot left to lose in my life, and that's all the more reason what is left is vitally important to me and needs to be protected. If I may, I'll give an example -- I raised Golden Retrievers for years, and when I lost my last one, I could not bring myself to have another. Trifling grief, some might say, but I say they were the best friends anybody could ever have. Who else gives complete and unconditional love? Maybe there are a few people like that in our lives, but they're pretty rare, and if there are one or two, we must always be thankful and remember not to take them for granted. My quirky little cat came along a few years after the last of my lovely Golden Retrievers died, and she stole my heart the first night. She got her name because she complained when I put her down to head for bed. I'd been holding this tiny thing while my friend and I chatted, a kitten so small she fit in one hand, and she actually had the nerve to grumble because I interrupted her sleep. My Miss Priss -- I can't bear to think of losing her, and unless I die first, I will. I don't want to die first, naturally, but I also think, what would happen to her if I did? She is not a cat most people would adopt easily. She has a lot of idiosyncrasies. So you see, that is just one aspect of my boring private life -- I dwell on things that are inevitably depressing, no matter how hard I try not to. I am still grieving each and every one of the dogs and cats I've owned, though the last cat before Prissy was a long, long time ago, kidnapped by my second husband so he could ransom me in the divorce settlement. Even though I gave him everything we co-owned, and I mean everything, including the one-carat diamond ring he'd proposed with, I never did get my precious Siamese cat back. His lawyer was better than mine. The thing is, like other things in life, we can't let those negative thoughts keep us from enjoying the moments that are good. Otherwise, what's the point? But in fact, I suspect a lot of the grief we experience over our pets is really extrapolated grief over beloved family members and friends who die. As hard as it is, it is still easier to face the loss of a pet than to face the loss of a beloved parent, spouse or child. Just like living vicariously through books, ballads and films, we allow ourselves a little release, I think, by grieving our pets when the other grief is too strong. Or maybe it's just me. My material misfortunes have also been huge. That's not to say I have ever been anything more than barely comfortable financially, but I have been through so many homes I make 'homeless' look appealing. I doubt there are haunting after-images of real estate, gardens, speedboats, furnishings and cars on the minds of the homeless very often. Just a bed for the night and a meal become the visions that haunt. Material belongings were once so unimportant to me, but as I age, I realize that there are things that not only make life infinitely more pleasurable, they are necessary to comfort. My problem in managing my finances through life, I believe, came from a lack of proper training and experience -- I was the youngest child. I suspect I was pretty 'spoiled'. I know I didn't suffer the hardships my brother and sister did. But I can't say I regret it -- it's one time in my life I look back on with great joy. Our biological father walked out when I was too young to really be affected by his leaving, but our mother was my world, and I lost her at a very young age. She was only forty-nine years old, and I a mere teenager when she suffered a fatal stroke. By then I was already married the first time -- a marriage that lasted only three years. I attended my mother's funeral without my husband, an older man, but one under a bit too much influence of his mother. I don't hold any grudges, but to this day, I know that she didn't do the right thing in influencing his decision not to attend that funeral with his young wife -- I was devastated, and a large part of my faith in him, my love for him, was buried with my mother. I had already lost my son prior to her death, and the trauma was overwhelming. For those who have not already guessed, I have always been a pretty passionate and affectionate person, and the 'feeling' part of it seems to worsen as I age. There is grave danger in allowing grief and depression to take over our lives, though. I'm pretty sure I have suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder most of my life. It's very likely why I have almost no memories of my past. I have refused to deal with it, partly because I guard my secrets and my privacy feverishly, but also because I think some pain is simply too much to handle. I wrote a small essay about the death of my infant son, finally, here, on FanStory. I felt I had to, or it was as if he hadn't been a part of this world. But I still can't talk about it. I doubt I ever will. I have let down more than one cherished friend because of the baggage I carry, I'm sure. Here's just one example: I put off visiting a friend of mine a couple of years ago. I tried to tell myself I wasn't good company at the time -- another friend of ours was very ill, I was dealing with some very demanding issues, and I was busy with my writing. But the truth is, I just wasn't up to giving anything more of myself right then. She died, and I never got to say goodbye. Worse, I suspect she died lonely, feeling unloved. Some things we regret until the day we die. Life is too short to dwell in such emotional pain, especially when there is a lot of physical pain involved in living day to day. But it is what it is. That's admission number six, for those counting, and if you say you didn't know I have health issues, I'll tell you that you have missed some of my writing. Which brings me back to FanStory. Those who would find fault wherever and whenever they feel neglected, offended, or just plain ornery, need to lighten up. At this point you might be wondering why I would include this as part of my memoir -- worrying over virtual strangers -- that is trifling grief. But FanStory is important to me -- a lot more important than even I realize at times. We bend over backwards to avoid hurting feelings on FanStory, don't we? What is happening in our real lives should be our priority. But if writing is an obsession, as it is with me, this site can be a blessing. But it can also be a curse. I am a prolific writer and I thank God for it every day. It wasn't always that way. I suffered a drought, a very real writer's block that lasted for years, and in recent years, I seem to be making up for it. It is, however, a two-edged sword. Or maybe a three-edged one, if there is such a thing. First, being someone who often posts two pieces every day puts me on a different level than someone who posts once a week -- obviously I have a lot more replying to do. Should I stop writing just because I can't keep up with those replies? Am I ungrateful for the reviews I receive because I can't respond? Of course not. But it is viewed by some as not caring about the time and effort put into giving me reviews. I have apologized a dozen times or more and explained that if I have to let something slide, I would prefer it is responding to my own reviews, not ignoring another writer's work. But it can seem selfish, even rude. I do my utmost to at least return-review, even when I am late and the work is only paying two cents. It's not enough to ease my conscience at times, but remember, I admit I am driven to write. (For those of you reading this who aren't FanStory members, we deal in fake "member" dollars, pay to publish our work on the site, and receive pay for reviewing.) I have also said over and over that not one review I receive is ever ignored -- I read every word. But I have been chastised for cut and paste replies, and I have been raked over the coals for not responding to my reviews. I guess that means those people think I should stop writing, or at least stop posting what I write so much. If I don't reply, I'm at the very least, ungrateful; at worst, arrogant and selfish. Well, I've been called that, and more. There's just one problem with saying I should write less -- you might just as well tell the tides to stop turning, tell the stars to not appear, tell the dawn not to break every morning. Some of us are fixated -- period, and there are only so many hours in a day. The other problem with being prolific is the mental block some who judge our work seem to have about it. I actually had someone tell me that if I am writing so much, the quality can't possibly be my best. My reply to that? Tell Jodi Picoult, James Patterson, and Stephen King that if they 'post' too often, they mustn't be offering anything worthwhile. FanStory matters to me, which means my reviewers matter to me, what they think about me matters to me. I work extremely hard, often spending as many as sixteen hours per day on my laptop. I am Dawn, a childless mother, and an orphan. I am Dawn, the activist who can fight for just causes, for underdogs, but fails miserably at fighting for her own happiness. When I try to, I seem to step on toes. It's that whole 'personal' thing cropping up whenever I try to write about or defend myself. (No doubt at least one member will find this essay a reason to hate on me or will use this recent weakness that I have confessed against me -- he or she will stop writing reviews of my work. I do hope I'm wrong, but I've seen more human failings in one lifetime than I care to address, and FanStory is made up of people from all over the globe, from all walks of life.) I am jaded Dawn, plagued with suspicions because that has been a large part of my life experience. But I also have many health problems. I could use up a whole paragraph boring you with the list. I won't because I am also the woman I described at the start of this piece. I refuse to knuckle under, to give up that last string that tethers me to some kind of happiness. I won't dwell on unpleasantness or on misery, unless I am using it to write something. I did write about my physical ailments once, but I tried to do so with humour. I hope it made a few people laugh; maybe even at their own ailments, because laughter is the greatest natural healer there is, as far as I am concerned. I am Dawn -- an animal-lover who still grieves pets she lost decades ago, but who also has many wonderful people she mourns who were close friends or family. Like most, my family does not come without its share of dysfunction and some of that was never resolved. I'm sure I inherited some family traits that are debilitating. Correction -- a lot. I am also this Dawn -- a friend who tries very hard never to make demands, nor to live with expectations, who takes whatever is given gratefully and gives whatever she can, including as much encouragement as I can drum up at any given moment. I am intensely loyal, and I am forgiving. I say that with pride, but also with humility. It is my faith, my spirituality that guides me, so how can I not be proud? Do I feel guilt over not being able to give more? Yes, a lot of the time, actually. But that's messed up, and I know it, intellectually. But knowing a thing in our minds isn't the same as being able to live it. I'm that old fool -- the one they say there's none like. I'm someone who wallows in grief and guilt sometimes without realizing that sorrow has a way creeping up on us, of taking over and dictating what our lives will be, and what we attract with that negative energy. But it does make good fuel for writing, especially sorrowful romance. I'm also someone who strives to meet the impossible, and that's a recipe for depression if ever there was one. That's one family dynamic I'm sure of -- what number 'admission' is this one? Even an old fool can learn, though, and I'm tired of being depressed, tired of being inhibited, weary of hauling around heavy baggage. There's so much more I could tell you of my real life, but I won't, not in this essay anyway, and if that makes some of you less than understanding, I'll have to accept that because we are strangers, most of us. This is going out to the worldwide web, where it will live forever and ever. Some things are (and should be) private. To those of you who are my family and are reading this, as I've said at the beginning, I have written this so that you have something to share with your offspring, should you wish to, at some future time. For my FanStory friends -- is there a connection with others online, most especially here? Of course there is, but how much of one, with whom, and what are the boundaries? So there it is -- the glimpse behind my mask. I've been as candid as I can be, and I do hope it's not been a complete bore. Writers! Who would ever want to be one? Yet that is who I am today. Who I am tomorrow may change, though I doubt it. I'm a little long in the tooth to do a lot of changing, or even much more of this introspective writing. And I believe it's through taking a good, long look at ourselves that we do change. In my defense, before you review this (if you're going to) -- because I write less than expertly or clearly sometimes shouldn't mean I'm suddenly a pompous ass, or conceited -- maybe my skills just aren't up to par that day. To those who read the brave souls who write biographically all the time -- try not to judge too harshly, and for goodness sake, recognize that it takes a lot of courage to bare one's soul. I am a writer, heaven help me -- please be merciful. Recognized Author Notes word count: 3,716

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