This week I met with my client who is brain injured, Mick (not real name) and the publisher. I''ve been ghost writing for Mick since early March and he has now taken the decision to go ahead and print his memoir. We discussed a dedication, front cover, how many photographs etc. I'm proud of him - he is seeing this project through to completion and so, in due course, he'll hold in his hands his life story, written down.
I'm so glad, now, that I didn't tamper with the narrative voice too much. The voice is Mick's and the story is his. It will be a slim book - his damaged brain simply ran out of things it could remember, in the end. But I'm so glad I didn't add unnecessary padding - it is real and moving and, as we approach the last stages, I've come to realise that I am as emotionally involved in this as he is.
So, in due course, I'll hold in my hands Mick's life story, written down - and what a moment it will be.
Ali x
Tuesday 29 August 2017
Thursday 10 August 2017
Writing Memoir with Mick
This week, I drive Mick (not his real name) out to the site where the car in which he was a passenger slammed into a tree - and his brain injuries changed his life forever. He has been here once before, about 10 years ago he tells me. As we approach the area, he becomes quiet and I know it is because he is searching for that tree.
We leave the car, and walk up and down the road, looking. I don't know what I was expecting - some monster growth of tree trunk, perhaps, reaching with malicious intent out into the road? Scratches and gouges, all these years later? I hadn't realised that it is a popular area for walkers: a trail leads away from the road into woodland. The trees are green spindlesticks, surrounded by summer growth of fern. It is a warm day. The road is a fast one, though, and the thought of that awful moment of impact chills me.
Mick cannot find the tree. It is a while before he looks up and admits that things might have changed, here. New growth has obscured what he thought would still clearly be visible. After a while, I hesitate, then suggest that - maybe - it is a sign that things move on.
He thinks, then says, 'Do you think that God is saying to me that I should let go; move on too?'
What can I say? 'Yes, I do Mick. Everything moves on in this world, doesn't it?' I think back to our earlier sessions; he was so angry. So caught up in his past. I look at him, and he is smiling.
I'm not suggesting that this is the happy ending he deserves - that would be trite. But at least there is a chance - a small one perhaps - that he will one day begin his process of letting go.
I guess there is a chance that this memoir will become part of that.
Ali x
We leave the car, and walk up and down the road, looking. I don't know what I was expecting - some monster growth of tree trunk, perhaps, reaching with malicious intent out into the road? Scratches and gouges, all these years later? I hadn't realised that it is a popular area for walkers: a trail leads away from the road into woodland. The trees are green spindlesticks, surrounded by summer growth of fern. It is a warm day. The road is a fast one, though, and the thought of that awful moment of impact chills me.
Mick cannot find the tree. It is a while before he looks up and admits that things might have changed, here. New growth has obscured what he thought would still clearly be visible. After a while, I hesitate, then suggest that - maybe - it is a sign that things move on.
He thinks, then says, 'Do you think that God is saying to me that I should let go; move on too?'
What can I say? 'Yes, I do Mick. Everything moves on in this world, doesn't it?' I think back to our earlier sessions; he was so angry. So caught up in his past. I look at him, and he is smiling.
I'm not suggesting that this is the happy ending he deserves - that would be trite. But at least there is a chance - a small one perhaps - that he will one day begin his process of letting go.
I guess there is a chance that this memoir will become part of that.
Ali x
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