My memoir, From the Lake House, will be published in July 2020. Yes, I’m excited and thrilled. And yes, I’m awaiting a nervous breakdown come summer. I’ve got the temperament of a writer – a true introvert who loves quiet, a keen observer who avoids a spotlight. What I don’t have is the temperament of a salesperson, which is evidently a requirement in today’s world of book publishing. Self-promotion? I’d rather do my taxes. Drawing attention to myself? A long line at the DMV is more appealing. 

My pathological preference for privacy is part genetics and part experience. Introversion runs on both sides of my family. You’ll find my kin off to the side at parties laughing among ourselves. We’re a witty crew who recoil from the stage, a stoic bunch who kvetch to but a few. I know my DNA predisposes me to an under-the-radar way of being, but I also know that life events have influenced me as well. From the Lake House tells the story of cascading losses, the most profound one being the delivery of my stillborn daughter. That was back in 2004, and I have enough distance now to understand that one of the longer-term effects of that loss is that my penchant for privacy grew. 

My child had come into my world when my world was unstable, and her death severed the already frayed bond between her father and me. Less than a year later, I found myself starting over at age forty – childless and single – in a community in which I was still a relative newcomer. Talk about a chapter of whirling unsettledness. Thanks to good luck, grace, and the kindness of many, I gradually created a new life that I now love and which bears a scant resemblance to the past. But to know me is to understand that my daughter occupies the most tender part of my heart. I’m protective of her, however, and I understand that conversations on topics like infant death are not for the weak-kneed. So I don’t talk widely of that season of tumult, even though it shaped me profoundly and matters deeply. Ironically, my “chat” muscle is strong because I talk for a living, and I can converse with just about anyone. Yet, the one thing I rarely talk about is the very thing that matters most. I know I’m not unique in withholding parts of myself; we each carry complex, rich histories, and revealing the Full Monty to all is not necessary, nor practical. But I sometimes wonder about the untold stories of people I know. What might lie at the heart of a friend, colleague, or neighbor?

Publishing a memoir is an interesting choice for a private soul! I had no vision of a memoir when I started writing in 2004. I initially dove into a journal as a way to process my experiences, and then an opportunity to join a writing group appeared. I discovered that writing was the perfect way for me to express my deeper self; my collection of essays eventually morphed into a memoir, and my writing friends encouraged me to publish. 

So here I am, on the brink of promoting and publishing a story that I seldom speak about freely. If my book has a chance of selling more than a few dozen copies, I’ll have to stretch in uncomfortable ways. Hey, Readers out there! Over here! Pay attention to ME! Consider MY book! The topic? Starting over after losing a baby. Come on, it’ll be a fun read! I’m certain I’m in good, vulnerable company with many authors who share a similar reticence about releasing their work into the world. And as publication nears, I’m preparing to put my private self on a shelf by remembering that this memoir was born through the death of my daughter. From the Lake House is ultimately a gesture to her, and honoring her brief life through my writing is the very least I can do as her mother.