The Roscoe Library was offering a class in memoir, led by the writer Teresa Tulipano. It was to be a six-week class culminating in a public reading of some of the work. Six writers were chosen after submitting a writing sample to Teresa. I knew and admired her work from Yarnslingers, a local nonfiction storytelling group that performs in the area.

Uncharacteristically for me, a devoted procrastinator, I submitted a sample as soon as I saw the call and was accepted into the class.

We started out with six writers around a solid library table in the cozy Roscoe Library. A 45-minute drive from my house gave me precious alone time with my thoughts on lovely country roads dotted with small farms with sheep, old stone walls and newly renovated houses with artful gardens. All were balm to my eyes.

My summer was mostly filled with rehearsals and performances with the Catskill Public Theater. It was time spent with a cast of theater folk who filled my days and many nights with camaraderie and challenges to my aging body and brain. It would have been easy to forget about writing, but I didn’t want to. And I’m glad I didn’t.

When you’re among a group of memoir writers, you learn a lot about each of them. In some cases, more than their family and friends know. It’s not just a safe space, it’s a nurturing one. At least this one was.

Most of us have experienced some form of trauma if we live long enough. Many experience it early in life. It can define us, shape us or elude our understanding. It may be what we struggle to understand or process through our writing.

In one of our first classes, Teresa shared that she had written an entire memoir about trauma and its effects on her life and decided not to publish it. She was happy with that decision ultimately. It was enough for her to write it.

I know another writer who wrote a memoir about early and sustained sexual abuse by a family member. She self-published and confronted her abuser, even moving back to the small town where it took place. Writing is not therapy. But it can be a window through which we can see ourselves and our lives.

I find my best writing is that which surprises me. Often I write to know how I feel.

Over the course of our six weeks together, a few dropped out, mostly due to health issues. But even after just a few sessions together, we got close to each other. Larry, the last man standing in our original group of three men and three women, wrote about growing up in one of the summer hotels in Sullivan County. His inside perspective and keen observation offered a delicious taste of a world most of us never knew. Another man in the group, who left after getting COVID, wrote about his experience as a young Episcopalian minister. We shared a knowledge of Greenwich Village and Manhattan hangouts.

Pamela Zaitchik, another Yarnslinger, described herself in one piece as a 25-year-old mother of two who spent a day alone with a girlhood friend at the Woodstock Festival in 1969. Her description of Richie Havens will never leave me.

Last week, Teresa organized a gathering at the library where we each read one of our 750-word pieces of memoir to a small group of family, friends and locals. Whether we each go on to write and publish a memoir, we enriched all our lives with our stories. If your local library offers a class, jump on it.