Why I’m Writing a Mixmoir?

Mixmoir is a word I’ve created. Mixmoir is used instead of mixed-genre memoir or a mixed creative non-fiction memoir. Mixmoir is so much easier to say, to use and is short-hand for a rich creation I’m working on now and have been for the past 5 years.

At the moment, the mixmoir is a collection of personal essays, poetry, photography, paintings, quotes, visual journaling spreads, zine. It’s a mixture. And I’m okay with this. I could be stressing about how is it going to be marketed or where is it going to sit on the shelf in a bookshop. But I’m not really bothered about any of that.

For me the point is to write the thing, in anyway it wants to be written. However it wants to show up on the page is how I want it to be. How I will record it and present it.

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”

–Franz Kafka

I’m allowing the book to be written the way the book wants to be written. As a human being, I’m a mixture of so many different cultures and heritages and influences. To pretend to be one thing and to write/ create/ produce in one genre is false, is a construction in itself. As I do not live and breathe in just one vein/ way or along one path. There are multiple paths back to the soul, and creating a mixmoir is my way of exploring all the paths.

Sticking to one way of creating this book would be a limitation on my way of expression. It would be cutting out elements of myself, moulding myself into a box, which is limiting and stifling and controlling. My creative expression wouldn’t have free roam and therefore would be stale and pale and just not me.

Therefore, a mixmoir is the most true expression of myself and experiences and I’ve been enjoying the journey so far. I’ll let my editor/ publisher worry about where this creation will sit on the bookshelf. My concerns right now is writing the damn thing.

SnowDay/ SlowDay

The snow is falling slow and silent. The light is reflected, brighter, bolder. The trickling melt underlines the heavy silence. Under the duvet on the couch, cocooned in creativity, I’m enjoying the process of slow writing. I’m enjoying touching the writing everyday. I’m enjoying how random feelings and thoughts, ideas and experiences take shape. I’m mindfully pulling things together, holding fragments up to the light, turning them this way and that, questioning; do you fit, do you sing? Not even losing most of the writing I’d already completed for the mixed-genre memoir, and I mean lost, gone, never to be seen again writing, is deterring me or derailing me or worrying me. It’s like I’ve seen the light, something has shifted into place and I’m just enjoying the ride, not bothered about the destination. And that feels so good.