While wandering through the Larry McMurtry Literary Center, I noticed a curious-looking red book. I reached for it. As it resisted my pull, I thought that it probably hadn’t been moved in years—maybe decades. I gingerly opened the cover, and my eyes widened when I read the publication date: 1795.
I was in Archer City, Texas with a group of fellow writers to study the craft of memoir, share our works in progress, and learn about Larry McMurtry. The author of over 40 novels including, Lonesome Dove, McMurtry called himself a “book-hunter”, and I was standing among his trophies: more than 300,000 books.
Roaming through all those books reminded me of my freshman-year job at the University of Arizona’s Main Library. I spent hours in “the stacks” inserting security strips into book spines and browsing whatever caught my eye. In the basement, I'd organize and catalog films, photographs, and artifacts, including first editions of the Curious George book series. I read each one and recognized myself in George.
Curiosity has taken many shapes in my life, from helping people solve problems to seeing how far I could push myself physically with endurance sports.
It also has a downside, leading me on a 15-year odyssey of job-hopping. I’d tire of doing the same thing and then …“Squirrel!” I’d be off to something new.
In 2023, my curiosity narrowed. After losing my mother, stepmother, and father in 99 days, I could only focus on one question. Who am I now?
I looked for the answer in my usual places: along the edge of a road on a predawn run, on a beach in Maui, in pints of fancy beer. This time, the answer wasn’t there.
I found part of the answer in writing. It began with journaling, then moved through researching and creating endless LinkedIn posts. Eventually, I started writing stories about my life for my psychotherapist. It led me to publish this newsletter. The more personal the work became, the more curious I grew about the craft. I wanted to do it better.
I began to read memoirs and found a universality in other people’s stories—in the search for who we are.
That brings me back to Archer City.
This group of strangers quickly became a trusted community. We risked showing our real selves as we each read excerpts from our work. I recognized pieces of myself in their efforts to make peace with the past, imagine a future, or claim their truth.
I choked back tears more than once as I read aloud about my lifelong effort to connect with a father I never really knew, how that struggle shaped me, and the first stirrings of forgiveness after he died.
As I held that red book published in the 1700s, I wondered how many people had read the story it carried. Now I’m curious about the story I carry, too.
If any part of this feels familiar, I’d love to hear your story.
Just hit reply. I read every message.
— Mark
Your Next Chapter
Essays on transition, reinvention, and what comes next.
markwigginton.com
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