Tag: memoir

Out with the old…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I’m working on a new project. I gently started writing it last fall and it’s slowly coming into its own. Along with the shape this project is taking comes a massive amount of imposter syndrome.

Who am I to tell this story?

Who would even read this boring drivel?

Why did I ever think I could write a second book?

And on, and on… Truth be told, that part hasn’t been so fun.

It’s a raw project– sometimes, as I type things out, I question if I’m ready to take such a journey. Faintly I remember feeling that way with Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas so in this (at least in this area) I’m confident that I’m ready enough. I do wish I loved the process. While it feels so good, and productive, to be writing regularly again I am really struggling to see past the voices questioning me every step of the way.

To combat the voices I’ve begun reacquainting myself with poetry and that part I am loving! (Shhh! Don’t let the manuscript know!) I’m pretty sure, at this point, that whatever this finished project looks like, poetry will play a part.

As you read this please consider sending me all of the good vibes you can manage! Imposter syndrome is this very terrible thing we all deal with at different times in our lifetime. It’s not even altogether an unhealthy thing, it simply comes with the territory of putting ourselves into something. Thanks for the vibes, if you ever need me to I’d be happy to return the favor!

There’s something about Amy {a memoir Behind the Scenes}

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

Early on in my memoir Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas, there is an essay entitled The Anthill. At the very start of the chapter, a teenage girl named Amy comes to my rescue. This is “Amy” pictured here, with one-year-old me! 

Her name isn’t actually Amy.

She and her mother both were actually pretty large parts of my early childhood days. Amy’s mom and my mom were good friends, which I guess is how Amy came to spend so much time with us. There were times she would sleep over, in my room with me. Sometimes she’d babysit me, and sometimes I’d spend chunks of time at her house. They had this Gatlin Brothers record and I would ask to hear the song Broken Lady again and again and again.

This song made an appearance on the playlist of GAAOBI, though I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s the only song I really skip when I play the list. It’s painfully hard for me to listen to. I knew very early on that I had to put this track into the book. I still love the song and find its lyrics pretty profound when it comes to the actual story I brought to life. Even so, it stirs some pretty hard and uncomfortable things within me when I hear it… 

Amy and I are still connected. She actually only lives a few hours from me, which is a miracle since we are both from small-town New Mexico! She is now a very proud grandmother. She was a badass single mom to two kids, a boy and a girl. She’s been a huge supporter of the book and such a validator because she knew my mom. 

I’ve been sharing behind-the-scenes stories, omitted essays, and other little secrets over in my Patreon group, but wanted to use this space to share one of them here, today!

xo,

M

{If you’re not on my mailing list then you’re really missing out! Every Tuesday I send out a Little Love note with a few things to bring a little light into your life! Also, in case you missed it, I facilitate a monthly workshop! You can learn more about that here!}

happy birthday you…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I heard her laugh often.

I saw her mean.

I watched her love.

I learned from her silent action to do for someone else. Always. Always for someone else.

She was not of the generation that considered the idea of self-care.

I loved the way her wrinkly fingers would wash my lips after we ate Sunday dinner until I believed I was too old for such childishness. Then, one day I missed the way those fingers felt.

She knew all of her neighbors, what they loved, who they knew, and the happenings of their daily lives.

She believed in strong opinions but did not believe in gossip.

She did not trust easily or shower others with frivolous kindness.

A product of the Great Depression left her feeling generous while often she kept closed fists. Such standards were different and should be seen as such.

She loved a bargain, even on something she’d never actually use. Her youngest daughter criticized this for decades until she too one day fell in love with an unbeatable deal she couldn’t pass up. It’s a gateway buy it seems, because the baby of the family was soon snatching up any amazing deal she saw too.

Her widowhood had her mixing and pouring her own cement, doing hard labor her 4-foot frame didn’t seem cut out for and proving to the entire town how beyond capable she truly was. Everyone constantly remarked on this, to which she’d simply shrug as if to say “you do what you have to do, end of story.”

She hated to miss church on Sunday and never missed a day of prayer or Bible reading.

If a broom dropped in the kitchen she set out preparing because company was coming.

Spilled salt was always thrown over her left shoulder… superstitions were strong and she acted in accordance always.

I can still her voice singing How Great Though Art in my left ear, as though we were sitting in her little yellow New Mexico church and no time at all had passed.

In the last years, frailty and arthritic pain took over. She donned a sweater in the 100-degree summer days.

Her tastebuds failing her, she often consumed beyond spoiled food unknowingly because she simply couldn’t bear to waste or throw things out.

A fighter until her last breath–fighting for those she cared about and never for herself–she loved in the ways she understood.

One hundred and five years ago my grandmother was a pink and fussy baby girl making her way into this mess of a world. Sixteen years ago she bid that same world goodbye and lives would never be the same.

I’m beyond grateful that I had the privilege of being Bertha Mae Dugan’s granddaughter and if you’re one who has fallen a bit in love with her while reading my memoir Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas thank you for helping to keep a part of her alive.

manic car rides…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

George Strait twangs on the radio, my mom beaming as she sings along. I dance in my seat only because, though I’d rather be listening to Michael Jackson or Madonna, the truth is that these types of nights are always my favorite.

Her window is cracked open an inch or two, though she flicks her cigarette in the center ashtray between us. The speed gives us just enough wind to send more ash swirling inside the car than landing in the tray. I press myself tighter to the door, while still dancing. I hate that she smokes. I hate that the other kids make fun of the way my clothes smell, I hate everything about her smoking at all. Bigger than hatred though, is the consuming joy for nights like this. More than my hatred of her habit is my need to make her happy.

The silhouette of New Mexico life stills all around us, frozen shadows beneath a billion stars. I know no other night sky than that of the desert, so I don’t understand how unspeakably beautiful it is, but one day soon I will. My eyes will find their home under different skies and I’ll etch these night drive memories into the crevices of my mind.

Mama turns the volume louder, pressing the pedal harder and the faster we go. As I squeal, she smiles to herself congratulatory. She moves her smile to me and I follow its trail all the way to her eyes. This is the mama who loves me, the one who wants me. Already a sliver of sadness creeps in at the thought that like a flash she’ll be gone and the other mom will be home.

I am six years old, and then I am seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

It ends there then, I’ll be off to new skies.

Happy mom, loving mom comes to wake me late into the night, when I least expect it. She whispers “let’s go for a drive!” all at once, I am filled with untameable joy.

The gift of nights like this includes the quiet world beyond our windows, the possibility coming to life in the beam of our headlights and this mother of mine. This version of her is my best friend, my life line, the person I love with every piece of my soul.

Tammy Wynette comes on the radio and mama’s angel-voice melts right in, mingling both voices so that I will never hear one without the other, no matter how old I grow.

Stretching on the asphalt before us, the bulbs guide us to eternity. Her eyes seldom leave my face. I can see it etched in her beautiful face that she is happy now, proud of herself. Perhaps she is proud that I’m her daughter.

Are you proud, Mama?

She croons, singing straight to the center of me. I want this night to last forever…