A Story is Born

I love my old journals, letters, postcards, and photos; I can always depend on them for another look at what happened- maybe not a complete account, but a foundation from which to start and build.

But I run a risk with those personal records: like old jigsaw puzzle pieces, the longer they sit around, unassembled and unprotected, the more likely a few of the pieces will go missing; and if enough of those pieces disappear, so does my understanding of the original picture they were a part of.

Eventually, the few remaining pieces are filed under “UNUSABLE,” never to be consulted again, like old photos with no identifying names or dates on them.

What I’m referring to are two different but related things: recorded events and the memories my mind tries to form every time I endeavor to make sense of them. And part of the reason my mind mulls over past events has to do with unresolved matters- things I didn’t dare put into my journal, back in the day: thoughts and feelings and actions I was uncomfortable including in a particular day’s happenings.

Take that fateful bus ride I took across Argentina, way back in March of 1977…

Having been assigned to serve a church mission in the western half of Argentina, it became one of the most exciting but trying times of my young adult life. On the one hand it was a rewarding experience, teaching and serving others- attending to the spiritual and emotional needs of total strangers. By the time I returned to the States, twenty-two months later, I was a better man.

But said service came at a cost- several, for that matter. I contracted any number of diseases, was at the mercy of both qualified and unqualified medical practitioners, had to endure a two-month crash course in the Spanish language, struggled to deal with a lot of different personalities, had to steer clear of police and soldiers at all times, dealt with every type of weather and discomfort imaginable while riding a one-speed bike in blistering heat or freezing rain, was persecuted by members of other churches, and had to overcome a crisis of faith- not once but several times.

But the biggest test of all was of a sexual nature. Unmarried missionaries in my church are not allowed to date, kiss, or even hold hands with members of the opposite sex during the two years they’re out in the “field.” It’s part of the sacrifice one makes when embarking on a church-sponsored mission.

I joke about it now, but back then- having had no physical/romantic contact with a woman for many months- it was all I could do to maintain my sanity, let alone control my thoughts or hormones, when half the women I saw down South looked like Natalie Wood, Jenna Ortega, Selma Blair or Sofia Vergara.

It was while on that mission that I learned how difficult it was to not think about something, not having yet learned to replace “inappropriate” thoughts with something of a more “uplifting” nature.

This may sound Victorian or puritanical to many, but for me, trying to stay true to my commitment to serve the Lord included not thinking about sex, women, masturbation, or past experiences with young ladies. And since keeping out those kinds of thoughts was about as easy as asking the sun to stop rising every morning, I had my share of failures, not to mention the accompanying waves of guilt that coursed through me after every slipup.

But what does any of this have to do with journals, memories, or life lessons? Well, if you took a peek at my journal entries for mid-March in 1977, you’d notice that they’re quite boring. Among the scribblings are mentions of a bus trip I took to a city far from my apartment…

Monday, 21 March 1977

I’m here in San Rafael at the leaders’ pension (Wells and Fronk). I left Alvear at about 7:30; got here at 9:00.

I included some thoughts about spirituality and missionary work, but no mention of the purpose for my bus ride, let alone any details about the ways I tried to endure the long trip.

As for the time of day, did I travel in the morning or evening? I left out that fact, for it seemed like such a trivial thing; besides, what difference would it make when I read this in the future?

Many hours later came the next entry…

Tuesday, 22 March 1977

I’m sitting here in the bus, on my way to Cordoba to get my documents renewed. It is now 2:25 am, and we are in Rio Cuarto. It’s really a strange feeling to be in my old area again. It brings back a lot of memories.

So, I’ve finally explained the reason for my trip. But as for what those memories of Rio Cuarto were, or why they elicited the feelings they did, I chose not to mention them. After all, they could be found somewhere in journal entries from months earlier- assuming I was able to find them.

What I did choose to write about was how much I hated Communism, based on a Reader’s Digest article I was reading. Big deal. More religious musings and concerns for my future followed that rant, and then I fell asleep.

On we move to the following day…

Wednesday, 23 March 1977

Well, the trip is almost over. I’m now sitting here in the bus terminal at San Rafael, waiting to go back to Alvear. The trip was tiring, as I only got about six hours of sleep during the whole time I was on the bus.

I’d like to explain something that occurs here in Argentina quite a bit these days. It’s called pre-marital sex relations. Here in Argentina, most pretty girls past the age of 15 or 16 have had relations of this type- and it’s quite common to see a 19 to 21-year-old guy walking around with a 15-year-old girl… It’s really sad to see a couple like this and know that the girl is no longer pure. As I said before, this is a common thing.

The temptations seem to come at a faster and more frequent rate, also. Each time I resist them, I receive great blessings. Each time I don’t, the fall seems harder, and closer to Hell.

What in the wide world of sports brought this on, you may be asking?

Did something happen on the way back to my hometown?

Why did I only get six hours of shuteye?

And why the fire-and-brimstone about underage sex and statutory dating practices?

Is it possible that I left out a few details about the trip?

YES.

The question is WHY?

To begin with, my journal writing in those early days was conducted as if someone was looking over my shoulder. In the case of the mission entries, I believed that that “someone” was God Himself, and as such, my writing should only be of an uplifting nature. (That was all I needed, something else to feel guilty about.)

While the intent is understandable, due to my naivete, any such entries are about as enlightening as reading the current NYSE listings. And as gist for future memoir or creative non-fiction pieces, those sterile passages are useless; they tell nothing about me as a person, and next to nothing about the ups and downs of that missionary life I knew so well.

But my purpose here is not to talk about the importance of making quality journal entries- rather, I want to discuss ways in which you can use a combination of personal records and existing memories (no matter how sketchy they seem) to create stories that are fit for a memoir, or as standalone works.

When I decided to write a memoir about my Argentine mission- a decision that was many years in the making- I took some writing classes and learned how to string together related, pivotal events- stories assembled in chronological order.

Aside from the work it took to find and select each event-based story, the real challenge came with developing the source material. In the case of that bus trip I mentioned, something significant did occur (most of which I didn’t mention)- a situation that was buzzing around in my brain like a moth trying to escape a locked room; I needed a resolution to the event that only additional details and fleshing out would provide.

I looked through my records and found a map and bus ticket receipts showing the route traveled, as well as dates and arrival/departure times. I needed to remember and then describe how long that bus journey really was:

March 21

7:30 am — 9 am: Travel from General Alvear to San Rafael

12:30 pm- 4:30 pm: Travel from San Rafael to next town

March 21–22

6 pm- 2:25 am: Travel, with many stops, until I pass through Rio Cuarto

6:30 am: Arrive in Cordoba; walk with other missionaries to downtown Cordoba

8:30 am: Take care of document papers- then off to the Mission Home

Leave from Cordoba on bus (that afternoon or evening)

March 23

Early morning- arrive at San Rafael terminal

• As I looked at that grueling bus schedule, I remembered how hard it was on me, and how much time I had to think about my life- what I was doing in South America.

• And as I thought more about the trip, I remembered when the event I’d avoided recording had occurred: sometime between the evening of March 22 and the early morning hours of the 23rd- before the bus arrived at the San Rafael terminal.

• I realized that if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was riding in a bus, along a back row of seats enveloped in darkness all night, nothing untoward would have occurred.

With that background information in hand, the memories flowed into my mind, now sensing that they had a trustworthy place to land. I started writing about what led up to the event, why it happened, and what the aftermath was.

The story I ended up writing was called “Lady in the Dark;” in it I described what happened after I found a seat at the very back of a darkened bus. Soon thereafter, a pretty, thirty-something woman embarked, walked all the way back to where I sat, and took the empty seat next to me.

There we were in the dark for hours, her jostling innocently against me, with no armrest between us- and me trying to think of something else, and failing, while my body definitely took notice…

Comments and questions are required welcomed. Ask me anything about memoirs, journaling or personal histories.