My Memoir Novels & Stories

“Why not?” “I … I can’t remember anything.” Her eyes fell to the ground. It’s not that she couldn’t remember, it’s just … she didn’t want to remember anything about it. Her dark past had been haunting her, chasing her wherever she went. She was scared. Her fear would consume her and bring back all the trauma. Her entire life she had avoided recalling every bit of memory from her parents. And she’s fine with little or nothing to remember at all. “Wait.” Estevan opened his backpack and, later on, pulled out a notepad. “I’ve read a book before—back in my country and took some notes out of it. Here,” he said, pointing at a page. “It’s called Meditation Memory Recall.”

"Something I don't know. Something that's not about the kids or logistics or schedules." He thought about it. "I've been writing." "Writing what?" "A memoir. About my father. About the trial. About everything. I haven't shown anyone. It's probably terrible. But it's... therapeutic." I reached across the table. Took his hand. "That's amazing. I'd love to read it." "Really?" "Really. When did you start?" "Some months ago. Late at night when I can't sleep. When my brain won't shut off."

“How long have I been out?” “About an hour. This is quite a unique book. I think you’d find it interesting as well. Miriam wrote about you.” “What the hell?” he said with a deep frown. “She didn’t mention you by name, but she definitely wrote about you and your brother Andrew. Listen,” she said and began reading out loud: A Sex Maniac’s Journal By Dr. Miriam Bachmeier Chapter four My First Encounter

She read the short notice. ‘I should be a traveler at this point and not some professor and writer.’ she lamented, envisioning a flight before she went back to the dining. Ren re-emerge from the shower, his youth now visible although the baby cheeks are still lingering. ‘Did I ever bring Ren to Boston once? I don’t remember.’ “I’ll call someone tomorrow then.”

I sat on a bench overlooking the ocean, the wind brushing my cheeks like a lover’s whisper. And for the first time in years, I closed my eyes without fear of what memories would rise. Because I had finally made room Not long after, I began writing again. A memoir, maybe. Or essays. Or just words to make sense of the pieces that were once too jagged to touch. But each page I wrote wasn’t about Daniel. Or Sophie. Or Lucas. They were about me. The woman who cracked. Who bled. Who lost. Who I loved. Who burned.

A memoir was different from a speech. I had given versions of the story publicly. In rooms of thirty and rooms of twelve hundred and in the livestream that had reached people I would never meet in places I would never go. I had gotten good at the delivery, good at giving the real version without being destroyed by the real version, good at walking back into my life afterward without the story following me in ways that disrupted the life. A book was different.

The sight warmed my soul, and further solidified my decision to not go to Castrum de Petra. I walked across the hall and climbed into my own bed, laying back on my pillows and staring up at the plain old white ceiling above me. Going back would be bad. I've spent way too much time pushing down those memories, only bringing them up when I write them down in my books. At first it was therapeutic to write about what had happened to me, of course, my readers all think it is an elaborate work of fiction, but I know the truth. It felt good to know that it was all real, and to put it all together into a book so that when my memory does begin to fade, I'll have that to fall back on, but now...Thinki

And I had no idea how I knew it, but something inside me felt that my upbringing wasn’t so simple. I decided to let my memory drift on its own through the sea of my knowledge. I turned to the last pages of the notebook Claris had given me, so I used it as a journal to recall all the details of what had happened to me after the accident. I didn’t hesitate to write down everything I remembered, and before I knew it, I had easily filled 20 pages. I paused for a moment and began to read what I had written. Surprisingly, I realized I was excessively detail-oriented and could pick up on trivialities, which made me seem overly naive.

I don’t have a very good memory. It’s a symptom of childhood trauma, according to my therapist. I’m missing such big chunks that I remember people being in my life but I don’t know how or when they stopped being there. I don’t know how I got to this point. I’m a writer but I don’t know my own story. How ironic.

Although I survived, the doctors said my brain had suffered severe trauma, causing memory issues. One moment, I might remember something; the next, it would be gone. So, I developed the habit of keeping a diary. I flipped through the entries, realizing that almost all of them were about Caleb. Of course they were. I liked him and pursued him for seven years. I was terrified that I might forget him. So I wrote about him again and again, as if I could carve those feelings into my mind. But now, I had finally realized that I'd been a fool for these past seven years.