I finished the first draft of my book last month. Yep, there is 62,907 words awaiting my editing hand.

And although I’m a bit concerned about its quality (particularly as the last bit was completed during an all-night writing frenzy), I still feel pretty good about it.

My Dad read the first 10 pages recently and said it made him uncomfortable (and he hasn’t even read the sex chapter yet!).

‘I felt like I was intruding on your life,’ he said.

I can understand why he felt that way.

A memoir is always personal. And an honest writer will sometimes shine light on parts of his/her life that make you shift uneasily in your chair.

Hell, some of it makes me uncomfortable…and it’s my life!

I’ve recalled things with laughter one minute and then reopened old wounds to check they are clean the next.

It hasn’t always been an enjoyable process.

A friend told me she doesn’t write about her life because she thinks it is better to leave the past where it is, behind her.

But I’m not like that.

I started scribbling notes about my single life to help me make sense of it all; to help me understand all the ridiculousness and the joy and the utter heartbreak I was experiencing.

‘Has it worked?’ I hear you ask.

‘Do you understand now?’

Well. I may not understand everything. But it has definitely helped me make sense of some of it.

I’ve written my way through a history of exes, tears, adventure, sex, misunderstandings, joy and disappointment and I’ve discovered things I couldn’t see at the time.

It’s also helped me let go of things too.

For example, today the unbidden memory of an ex popped into my mind.

I hadn’t thought of him for ages and I’m not sure why I did now.

Once just the thought of him would’ve caused pain.

But my book has helped me let go of that and I decided to check out his Facebook page to see what he’s been up to.

From his status updates it looks like he’s doing the same things he was doing when I knew him.

He’s still out there being the life of the party, making sure the people around him are taken care of, and he’s still drinking too much. And he’s probably still fleeing intimacy and not being as kind to himself as he should be.

I had to laugh when I reread that last sentence.

If he saw it he’d probably fix me with a piercing gaze and say, ‘Are you trying to psychoanalyse me Lu?’

Probably.

But isn’t that we all do?

Time passes and you’ll be reminded of someone from your past. Months or years may have passed when, for some reason, you will look back and see something different.

And it will all make sense.

And so my book has helped me do that.

I guess I’ll have to write another 62,907 words to help me understand the next decade.