There must be a point beyond the pain
I always imagined that writing about my family would be what provided a sense of closure for me. Turns out I had that pretty much back asswards.
Things are going to be a little different here at The Dang Apostrophe going forward.
Wait. That’s not quite right. They’re going to be ORGANIZED a little differently.
I’m launching a new section of the newsletter that will be the tent where all non-sports content — such as today’s essay — will live. I’ve even got a new name for it and everything:
This will not cost anyone anything extra. It will, however, give you the option to choose what types of updates you get using the settings in your Substack account.
If you are only interested in the sports content, uncheck “The Lost Sports Writers” in the Notifications box. I’ve even used a screenshot below:
If you are not interested in the sports, only in my personal essays and book-writing exploits, uncheck the tabs for “The Dang Apostrophe” and the “New chat threads” as pictured below:
The reason I’m doing this is to address a fundamental dichotomy, which is that the audience for this newsletter falls into three distinct groups:
People who follow me because of my perspective and coverage of sports, and that’s it.
People who follow me because of my perspective and coverage of sports, and are curious enough about my emotion-laden introspection to entertain my essays and other work.
People who are interested in my emotion-laden introspection and don’t give a rip about Seattle sports. This includes a fair number of friends and kin who’re obviously tolerant and generous beyond belief and to whom I am forever grateful.
The goal here is to give you a chance to give you a chance to opt out of material that doesn’t interest you so I’m not cluttering your email. If you have a question, you can leave a comment or respond to this email.
I’m grateful for your interest and support, and hope this change is useful. Now that the housekeeping is concluded, let’s get started with today’s piece:
I wasn’t planning to write about my dearly departed parents when I signed up for the writing class at Hugo House. I wasn’t going to write about my very-much-living stepfather, either.
There was a book about Pete Carroll that I’d been working on for about six years at that point, and by “working on” I mean that I had been telling people I was writing it. I’d even sent out some query letters, but most of this book was still in my head as opposed to being on the page, which is why, in early 2019, I signed up for a creative non-fiction class at Seattle’s Hugo House. I wanted to get out the jumper cables, give a jolt and see if my engine would turn over.
My Mom died a couple of weeks before the class started, though. This was sad, but not sudden. She had been diagnosed with cancer four years earlier and had made the decision to pass on a final round of chemotherapy just before the New Year. When she died in late March, she was at home surrounded by her three children.
Two weeks later I was sitting in a classroom at Seattle’s Hugo House, listening to a conversation about the power of personal narrative and I realized this was an opportunity to write about my family. All of it. My father, who had died when I was 13. My stepfather, and the dysfunction he had sewed into our family. My Mom, and everything she’d done to keep us close while enduring a life that was way tougher than anyone deserved, let alone someone who was as nice as she was.
I had always felt that at some point I would write about my family. As a journalist, I knew the level of transparency this would require, though, and the desire to protect my Mom’s feelings kept me from doing anything more than daydreaming about it. But as I sat in that classroom on Capitol Hill in April 2017 listening to the teacher explain the difference between a memoir and a personal essay, I realized that there was no longer anyone I had to protect from the truth of my life. I felt a distinct prickle of excitement at telling this story. My story.