My Brush With Eternal Damnation: A Fib-Free Mini-Memoir

Tired of discovering that a memoir you read and enjoyed and perhaps were inspired by is more fiction than fact? Me, too. And so I've decided to try my hand at the genre. Here, then, is a fib-free mini-memoir... on fibbing. It is the harrowing story of an untruth that quickly grew into such a pack of heinous lies that my very soul was dangling, Sinners-in-the-Hands-of-an-Angry-God-style, above the fiery pit of hell.

I was nine years old.

Here's the situation. I had been in training for several weeks to make my First Confession with my third-grade class at St. Luke's school in Lakewood, Ohio. First Confessions are a watershed event in every Catholic's life, and the nuns had been running us hard: making sure we had memorized the Act of Contrition, suggesting potential sins to confess (mainly lies and disobedience; impure thoughts and acts came a few years later), and warning us, above all else, to make sure we didn't make a Bad Confession.

A Bad Confession is one in which you knowingly lie, omit mentioning a sin, or confess your sins but aren't really and truly cross-your-heart sorry. A Bad Confession is a sin that transcends the rather pedestrian venial sins of, say, kicking your sister or making faces at your parents' backs. It is, in fact, a Mortal sin. If one dies with an unconfessed and, therefore, unforgiven Mortal sin on one's soul, the afterlife options available are extremely limited. Heaven is out of the question. Purgatory is reserved for those doing time for venial sins. Limbo only accommodates unbaptized babies. One option is left: the place Sister Jerome spelled with double hockey sticks.

About a week before I was scheduled to make my First Confession, one of my brown-nosing older brothers announced to my mother that he was going to confession and, oh, too bad Jimmy can't go because he hasn't made his First Confession yet. Now, if you're the near-middle child in a family of seven boys and two girls, you may have a teeny tiny propensity toward competitiveness. I recognized a challenge when I heard it. I immediately spoke up and said that I had, in fact, already made my First Confession (Venial Sin #1: Lie) and that I would go with him. I believe I also called him a butt-face (Venial Sin #2: Uncharitable name-calling).

I went in the confessional, got on my knees, and when the Priest slid back the screen separating my crew-cut head from his, said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my last confession." I then proceeded to tell him that I had lied five times and was disobedient five times. The priest assigned me my penance--five Our Fathers and Five Hail Marys--and sent me on my (still sinful) way.

If you're keeping track, the tally at that point was more than a few venial sins and, thanks to ensuring that my First Confession was a Bad Confession, one whopping, ticket-to-hell Mortal sin.

I tried to rectify the situation a week later, when I made my official "First Confession" with my class. But when I said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been one week since my last confession," the priest stopped me. "Isn't this your First Confession?" he asked.

Having a priest actually ask you questions while you're kneeling in a dark confessional at the age of nine is terrifying beyond words. I started to explain that a week earlier I had lied to my older brother about making my First Confession when the priest stopped me. "Then you should just confess a lie," he said. He had misunderstood. I knew that. God knew that. My duty at that point was to set him straight, to explain the situation more clearly so that I could make a good confession and be free of the black spot of damnation that had been staining my soul for a week. But all I said was, "Yes, Father."

The tally now: A mountain of venial sins and TWO bad confessions. The next possible opportunity for me to expunge my soul would be in a week. It was the longest week of my life. On my way home from school, I was especially careful when crossing the street. At home, I couldn't tease my sister, much less hit her. Any slip up--uttering a swear word, for example, or even the thought of uttering a swear word--and I was doomed.

And so it was with great relief that I was able to make it into the confessional alive the following week. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my First Confession." So far so good. I saw the silhouette of the priest's head nod encouragingly. I decided to get to the really bad news first. "I have made two Bad Confessions," I said. The priest stopped me. "Didn't you just say you made your First Confession a week ago? How could you have made two Bad Confessions?"

This was like having the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost yelling at me as one. But there was no way I was leaving that dark and dank confessional with three Mortal sins weighing down my soul, so I started at the beginning. After awhile, the priest held his hand up. "Son, I can tell you are truly sorry for all your sins, and in Jesus's name, I forgive you of your sins. I repeat: all of them." I'm not sure, but I think I heard him chuckling as I closed the door to the confessional, free at last.

I hope this serves as a lesson to any memoirist tempted by the riches of this world to travel along the dangerous path of exaggeration and fabrication. It is not worth it. Honest to God.

Memoir update: My brother is still a butt-face.

Reading for the Writing

It happened again today. A friend mentioned the title of a novel I'd read recently.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
"Very much," I replied. And I had.
"What's it about?" he asked.

And that's when it happened. Even though I had read the book less than two months ago, I wasn't able to provide much more information other than the uninteresting and unhelpful fact that I'd enjoyed it. Plot? I might have been able to scare up a sentence or two. Names of the main characters? Gone. 

Certainly every novel needs a plot, with interesting characters developed in memorable ways. When it all works together well, it's like a wonderful symphonic piece. But what I remember most about reading a good novel is the experience of it: the author's word choice, the variety a rhythm of the sentences, the emotional impact evoked from what is written and, importantly, left unwritten.

Do you suffer from forgot-the-plot syndrome?

Easy for Me to Say

"Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never..." Winston Churchill

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no use being a damn fool about it." W.C. Fields

This is a tough week for a lot of writers. I'm thinking specifically of the writers who found out yesterday that they will not be advancing to the next round of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest... and the writers who were eliminated in the first round... and those who will be knocked out of the running during the rest of the contest.

This is the contest that, to my surprise and amazement and eternal gratitude, I won in 2009. (Two years ago already?!) So I know the reaction to any comment I make about the need to keep trying, to not give up, might be, "Easy for you to say." As a matter of fact, I do try to avoid saying it because a lot of writers are sick and tired of hearing someone tell them to "buck up." But because this contest draws so many entries from so many extremely talented writers, I'm hoping a quick recap of my decades-long affair with rejection might help someone get back to the writing desk a little more quickly.

While I've wanted to write a novel since I was six or seven, I didn't realize that dream until I was fifty-five. Before I saw my name on the cover of a novel,  I wrote three other complete novels and dozens of short stories and poems that collected enough rejection slips to influence the stock prices of Boise Cascade and Weyerhauser. I've experimented with every approach to writing imaginable. Just try to name a writer's guide or advice book I haven't read. I've taken online writing courses and have tried several different "creative writing" software programs. On the advice of a potential agent, I paid an ungodly sum of money to a book doctor to help me get my novel ready for publication. That novel that was rejected almost as quickly as my check was cashed. On the advice of a different potential agent, I rewrote one of my novels as a screenplay. Have you seen the movie yet? Me, neither. I continued rewriting, reformatting, even re-genre-ing. And still the rejections poured in, every one of them a poke in the eye, a body shot to my self-confidence.

And here's an update: It doesn't end when you get published. There is absolutely no guarantee that my next manuscript will be published. And while the majority of reviews of my book have been, thankfully, positive, the ones that aren't--like the one I read the other day wherein the reader-reviewer expressed disappointment that I wasn't a more talented writer--do, in fact, sting. Getting published did not make my skin any thicker.

But if you're a writer and not someone who simply wants to be known as a writer, you'll keep going. You'll keep collecting those rejections, learning what you can from each one, but ultimately believing in your own hunches, your own voice. You'll put aside that nagging feeling that there are a few hundred other, more productive uses of your time than agonizing over a blank screen or piece of paper. You won't blame. You'll try not to complain. You'll just keep your butt in that chair and keep writing.

If you're not a writer, you won't. Now that was easy for me to say.

Marital Reading Habits

I just received another of those gifts that every writer lives for: an email from a stranger, writing to tell me how much he or she enjoyed my novel. Whenever I get one of these, I always think of what Mark Twain once said: "I can live for two months on a good compliment."

This message, though, was a little different from the others. "This is the first book my wife and I read together, aloud to each other," the sender wrote, "and  it couldn't have been a better choice."

They read it to each other? Aloud? I tried to imagine a similar scene with my wife, Joanne. And as I did so, I felt a stab of guilt. I've worked out of my home for the past 24 years and, as a result, I not only have dinner with Joanne almost every night, we also often have both breakfast and lunch together. (And, yes, we still get along; in fact, we celebrated our 26th anniversary last month.) At breakfast and lunch, my nose is usually stuck in a book; hers, a newspaper or magazine.

Here's the problem: Joanne is a vocal reader. She loves to share what she reads. A health tip. An inspiring profile. A sad story. My reaction, I confess, is more impatience than interest. My attention span is so short that I must guard it jealously. Interruptions that take me away from a story I'm immersed in are just that: interruptions.

There's more. If I appear to be enjoying whatever I'm reading, Joanne will ask me to read a passage to her. Any guesses as to my response? If you guessed something along the lines of, "You can read it yourself when I'm finished," you win the Spot-the-Insensitive-Spouse award.

So when I received the email from the read-aloud couple, I envisioned a happy husband and wife, laughing and cuddling over a good book. I made a vow to respond more enthusiastically when Joanne reads something aloud to me. And I intend to keep that vow... right after I finish this page...

Immersion Writing

Enjoyed this from Michael Chabon, quoted in this month's Poets & Writers:

"To do your very best work as an artist, whatever the discipline, takes complete immersion in the work. You need to get caught in the slipstream, to draft along behind it as it carries your forward. You get into a state where, even if you're not writing, everything you see, read, hear; every place you go; every newspaper you pick up; every conversation you chance to overhear feeds the work, because you are so saturated in it."