Cleaning out the basement influenced my journey as a writer

As a young girl, I was devoted to my journals. 

The spiral bound notebooks I selected held bright, psychedelic covers unlike the Mead variety I filled for my classes at school. Like most teens, I wrote about family life, friends, and hobbies, but many of my journal entries centered on my closed adoption. Between the ruled lines, I shared what I thought about as an adoptee, and how I wished I knew more about my background. 

When I went off to college, I stashed the journals in the bottom of a sturdy, cardboard box and covered them carefully with wrapped keepsakes. I sealed the box with nearly an entire roll of masking tape and marked it: Julie–High School. Then I stowed the carton in an obscure corner of my parents’ basement. 

Fast forward thirty years. 

At forty-eight years old, I was sent for a breast biopsy. This nerve-wracking experience compelled my twin sister and I to get serious about learning what medical conditions ran in our bloodline. When our adoption search stretched from months into years, I picked up my old habit: journaling. As I recorded the crazy twists and turns of my adoption probe, I toyed with the idea of writing a book. 

Yet, the idea of composing such a personal narrative under my real name made me uncomfortable. So, I dabbled with the idea of a pen name; my birth name became a consideration. During the five years that it took to locate my birth relatives, I created several drafts of my search story. Concurrently, I enrolled in courses through the Writer’s Studio at the University of Chicago. As I studied the tools of my craft, I realized the chapters I had written lacked compelling characters, riveting scenes, gripping dialogue, and a definitive story arc. Frustrated, I set aside the memoir and turned to the genre I loved to read: fiction. 

For months I worked on conjuring a story world ripe with believable characters and an intriguing plot. The novel I chose to write was influenced by my lived experience as an adoptee working with a confidential intermediary whose job was to contact birth relatives. Even though I used a fictitious plot with made-up characters, I was still writing about what I knew. I grew more and more excited about my novel’s progress and promise. But as often happens, real life interfered, and the completion of my novel hit a speed bump.

My husband and I decided it was time to downsize from the suburban home where we’d raised our family. Clearing out that big old Victorian consumed months of my time, leaving me with little time to write. I was forever sorting, donating, and reselling unwanted household items. Not surprising, I had saved one of the most onerous tasks for last: organizing the storage area in our antiquated basement. Yet, this final chore provided a bonus, one that changed the course of my writing career. 

On one of the lower shelves, behind the dust-encrusted bins of Christmas ornaments and kids’ memorabilia, a dilapidated, heavily taped box marked: Julie– High School appeared. I yanked it from the shelving. As I stripped away the old tape, I grinned. Rummaging through the contents, I discovered my old journals hidden at the bottom. I filled my arms with the old notebooks and plopped down on the staircase to read.

Journal after journal, I scanned entries penned in a familiar yet different handwriting. The narrative voice was young, but it was also tender, honest, and endearing. While my adolescent musings lacked scenic details and dialogue, the young author’s voice was intuitive, reliable, and captivating. Holding the journals to my chest, I charged up the stairs and stashed the found treasure in a box marked: Important Documents- Hand move.  When I returned to the chaos in the storage room, a plan crystallized: Shelve the novel for the time being; Using the journals, refocus on writing the memoir about my search for birth relatives.

As I considered reprioritizing my writing projects, I realized that somewhere along the line my goals had shifted. Revealing personal moments no longer felt awkward. Hiding behind a pseudonym didn’t feel right either. And by sharing the details of my real-life adoption search, I believed that other adoptees might benefit from the mistakes I’d made and what I learned. Suddenly, my writing had a higher purpose than just telling a story. I felt a sense of urgency to get my story down so that I could share, inspire, and inform. 

Armed with my journals and the outline of my adoption search saga, I imposed the elements of fiction I’d learned from coursework into my personal tale. I strove to make my characters appealing yet relatable. I infused pivotal scenes with rich sensory detail, and I added necessary dialogue. The boring narrative I’d penned several years before sprang to life. But for my memoir to shine and be true to its genre, it needed carefully placed reflection from me, the narrator. That’s where the journaling work that I had done throughout my life came in to play. 

In May, my debut memoir Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging will be released. I began writing my story over ten years ago, sidelined it briefly to pen a novel instead, and then returned to the manuscript with the required skills to serve its needs. As much as I love blogging, crafting personal essays and memoir– I have a coming-of-age story in the works– when the time is right the unfinished novel will make its way out of the desk drawer. One of the things I’ve gleaned from more experienced writers than me is to repurpose or reuse discarded writing. It’s a shame to let ideas and good words go to waste.

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