As a fiction writer, I define nonfiction through the prism of memory. At its core, nonfiction must be true, yet truth itself can be layered with colors and experiences not readily visible until rendered on the page. Informed by trauma from my early life, truth feels impossible to render on the page—and yet it begs to be there. Therefore, my nonfiction commits to the facts, but allows layers of metaphor, depth, and rhythm to translate what might otherwise be too acute in its truest form. While blending the subjective and the objective, I strive to capture my experience authentically, breathing life into events, while also shaping them through the contours of my own understanding, my truth, and yes, my bias. And always, I strive to uncover the many-colored layers of my memories and experiences. 

Twenty years ago, I wrote a blog about having multiple sclerosis (MS) and running long distances. At the time, there was not a lot of information from people with MS on how they were living their lives. The more I wrote, the more I found strength and healing in my writing. I took the blog off the internet and started assembling my memoir. Part three of the book is about running eight marathons, raising twins, following my dream of becoming a writer. Much of this comes from those early blog posts. As I wrote about MS as a chronic illness, I knew I also had to write about alcoholism. Therefore, part two is about battling MS, and part one deals with alcoholism, family dysfunction, grief, and my recovery. In this essay, “Until I Forgot Running,” I wanted to return to when my knowledge and awareness of alcoholism began. I needed to go back to my grandmother’s death, back to that dry schoolyard, back to that day I discovered running as escape. It was an important moment for me.

Dear Rhonda, 

You are such an aware and curious child. Guard that curiosity; it is your greatest asset. Don’t let anything reduce your craving for interesting facts, poetry, theater, science, literature, and art. You can be whatever you want to be, so long as you remain curious. Do everything. Do all of it! Soak it in. Read and sing. Paint and explore. Travel and love. And watch this show unfold around you. You love this story of life, even when—maybe especially when—it’s difficult. Stay curious. 

Love, me.

I am writing a memoir about running, MS, and alcoholism. This essay is a part of that work. I am also polishing and editing a short story collection with female protagonists defying the manic pixie dream-girl bias. And, my debut novel, Raising Panic, will be released next month, from Steel Toe Books. So, I am also learning about post-publication marketing and how to broadcast my novel now that it is in print. I have a flash memoir coming out in AmLit. Several of my poems are coming, a few from Chestnut Review, The Lane Literary Guild, and Maryland Bards. And another short story will be anthologized in Ole Blue Claw. Currently, I am writing my annual spooky story (every October) about a woman trapped in a dollhouse in her mind. This last one is a metaphor for climate change, as many spooky stories are these days.