So I meet with K. at a café on Willamette for coffee. She has just moved to town from Vermont. I’m thinking, she is probably wondering where the snow and cold went.
At a cozy table by the fire pit, the wane winter sunlight lighting up the place, with coffee in hand, I tell her that my writing project is to take all the disasters that befell me in grad school and turn the story into a novel. She puts down her tea and her eyes get big. “I’m writing about my disasters in grad school, too!” she says. Whoa. Small world.
We decide to meet every week to talk about the writing up of memories into story.
I never hear from her again. Writing trauma can be very scary, but also very healing.