On Tuesday, May 5th, “Pieces Of My Mother,” a memoir by Melissa Cistaro, arrives at bookstores. Melissa is a friend and so, yes, in a way,
this is a shameless plug! However, I’m
writing not just to plug her book. I’m
writing about Melissa because she inspires me and I enjoy nothing better than
writing about people who inspire me.
As a child I became a voracious
reader – from the Hardy Boys to “David Copperfield.” Early on I became
fascinated with writers. What kind of person
could twist words with the slight-of-hand of a magician and so conjure worlds
from the almost familiar to the outright exotic? Although I was a good Catholic boy, I
considered nothing more sacred than a book.
I loved the sheer physicality of a book – open the covers and another
world tumbles out.
I never aspired to be a writer, but
I very much wanted to be friends with writers.
I wanted to sit in the company of my heroes and “saints.” When I got to Fordham University I landed my
own radio show, “Bluestockings”, where each Thursday night I’d interview poets,
novelists and literary folk. I was
mentored by Marguerite Young who at that time had written the longest (1198
pages) novel in English, “Miss McIntosh, My Darling.” She introduced me to Anais Nin, legendary
feminist and diarist. I believed they
lived life differently from me and that somehow they had the eyes to see, the
ears to hear and the hearts to feel in ways I didn’t.
And now, all these years later, here’s
Melissa – prettier than Marguerite and far less hedonistic than Anais – a
friend with whom I’ve shared many a pot of tea.
She’s so wonderfully “not different” and yet from the ordinary dimensions
of her daily life she’s written a memoir of her mother who abandoned her and
her brothers and father. She’s told the
story of her anything but ordinary childhood.
This week her book physically appears on bookshelves after more than a
decade of writing and rewriting, after having been rejected two score over. And I am in awe.
I was seduced unabashedly by the romanticism
of Marguerite and Anais. But I know
Melissa too well to shroud her in any romanticism. In the harsh glare of everyday life, I admire
her for raising a family, loving her husband and staying true to her
children. I celebrate her for being
faithful in giving meaning to what was unfathomable. I cheer her for slaying dragons and calling a
truce with demons, as she offered peace to her childhood memories.
To find the extraordinary in the
ordinary – that is what goes into making us human. And writers show us how.
Thank you, Melissa!
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