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"New Challenge: $1,000 Prize - Mad About Memoirs"

Macey Lang clicks the email.

>Hi Macey,

We are "mad" about the intimate stories that unfold within a memoir. Have you ever experienced anything super life-changing? How did it make you feel? Do you have an exciting story brewing inside, waiting to be expressed? We want to know. Memoirs give readers a chance to step inside the mind of a writer in a personal way. It's amazing how deeply people can sometimes connect with someone else's experiences. This week, enter the Mad About Memoirs Challenge and tell your story. You may write about any topic, as long as it's a memoir. Have fun!

GRAND PRIZE

$1,000

END DATE

2/23/21 at 11:59 PM EST

——

1982

Well, I was born in 1982.

First of all. I suck at memoirs. I know, this probably isn’t the wisest route to take for a memoir challenge, but what’s a memoir if not honest? I think “honest” is the point and honestly, I’m no writer. I write in a journal, but the reason I do is to give my thoughts a chance to out-live me. So I guess I’m more of a write-down-thoughtser... and this is the first memoir I have ever decided to write. You’ll either love it or hate it and Earth will keep revolving. Great. You know I’m not a writer so let’s get on with the story.

My name is Macey Lang. I don’t hate it anymore. It took years to get over feeling like “Macey” made me less of a “real” man whatever that means. Who gets to decide the gender of a name? Why? How?

Who gets to make a man feel he isn’t real?

I was little but if I could I’d go back in time to the kids that teased me and flick their forehead then ask “did you feel that?” Yes. I’m a real human, person, being after all.

“Be a real man”— be logical.

My mother didn’t like "Mason" because of the jars. I like the jars. I’m not really sure why they chose “Macey” in the end but I can tell you this, it has shaped the way I think about names. The coin is a coin. The name doesn’t make it less of a real coin.

Now imagine all the stories the coin would tell if it could talk. I think about this stuff. So I keep a journal. Some thoughts hope for a place to stay, and it’s a real gift to be able to put yourself on paper like a photograph in words. Date. Snap. Then you have a whole album of thoughts, captured and framed years ago. It’s like living forever.

2010

Mace, if you’re reading this (I know you’re reading this) call Peter and ask him to order you a pizza with no cheese or sauce

I bought my first journal when I was 25. Small, black, simple. My mom was the one to suggest a tiny travel journal to take with me on my trips. Well, I wasn’t expecting to have so much fun with it, but here I am 14 years and three journals later. So the moral of this anecdote is a mother knows best.

No but the main thing I’d say is to live open rather than closed. Sometimes the “new” leads to happier places than we could have imagined, like me with journaling.

Thanks mom.

I told you, I’m not a writer, but I've got a cool story to tell and thought I'd be mad at myself for a long time if I didn't at least try to be “mad about memoirs” for now.

Two months ago I felt nostalgic.

So I dusted off my oldest journal, that little black one, opened it up again and flipped through— it had been so long. Hooray! I am reborn. If journals could think, that’s what mine was thinking. The dusty old thing had a bunch of thoughts, unfunny jokes, and a few phone numbers I got while traveling.

Then there was this page.

2008

Random idea.

I’m going to roll a die. Nine times. I’ll write the numbers here and leave them for you.

2 - 5 - 3 - 1 - 5 - 1 - 4 - 3 - 5

You get to decide what it means Mace.

Cheers,

Dumb you at 26.

I read the entry, wide-eyed. You get to decide what it means. What on earth do you mean? I wrote the numbers down on a separate paper.

Then I went for a walk with my daughter.

Then returned to the paper, looking at the numbers in different ways, until I saw new sets of numbers like “25 - 31 - 51 - 14 - 35” or “ 2 - 3- 5- 15 - 43.” What was I thinking?

But it’d been over a decade. It was difficult for me at 38 to think like 26-year-old Mace. Then, a light bulb lit up. Not in my head but literally in the room. My wife switched on the lights when I’d been laying in the dark thinking and thinking for hours.

No, I’m kidding. Lotto GRAND 520 came to mind— a $20,000 jackpot for five numbers.

So I chose five,

2 - 14- 25 - 31 - 43

and bought a ticket on Christmas Eve.

I didn’t expect to win that way.

Now I’m writing a memoir, so it’s probably obvious I did win that way. Twenty grand, thanks to a journal. How? Macey Lang from 2008 was definitely up to something.

2011

Macey, who are you five years from now?

10 years? I’m 29 today.

Happy 34th. Happy 39th. It’s my last 20s man, it feels crazy, I miss traveling. I can’t believe the way everything is changing.

This birthday hardly feels like a birthday. Weird, huh? I know there’s a chance you aren’t around anymore. Keeping journals has caused me to think like this, you know, because I can’t know. I’ve been writing these thoughts, writing to all these versions of us, different ages, same person, and it’s got me thinking about time and all that crazy stuff I can’t explain. Just, I’m afraid of growing old. I’m afraid of death. What am I to do with fear? Have you figured that one out yet? Well, 29 today. If you make it and you see this, write me back at 34.

2016

34 today. You made it Mace, and don't worry so much man. I know you’re not looking forward to your 30’s but then you turn 30 and Gia comes along and she changes that for you. So everything is changing huh? Yeah it didn’t feel amazing then but just wait, good change is on its way to you. She’s got brown eyes.

Oh, you’re a dad now. Lola Lang. February 27th, 2015. She looks like you.

You’re going to figure it out soon buddy.

——

(22 February 2021)

“Daddy what are you doing?” Lola opens the office-room door, startling him. “I’m writing a memoir for a fun writing challenge. What are you doing?” She walks closer.

“What’s a memoir?”

“It’s like a story about your memories.”

She looks up at her dad, more curious than confused. “Here, let’s write a memoir together. Come.” He pulls her onto his lap.

“Okay, what do you want to call your memoir? Anything.” She tilts her head sideways, the way she does when thinking about something important.

"I don't know."

"What makes you happy?"

"Playing, at the park."

It’s Macey's turn for a head tilt as he thinks for a moment before typing.

"The... Queen, of, Ridgeton... Park."

He hits enter.

"There. Do you like that title? You're the queen of course." Lola nods with a smile that means everything to him.

“Okay my lady, let's begin."

The Queen of Ridgeton Park

There is a little park in a little town where a queen lives. Ridgeton. Queen Lola rules that royal park because it is her happy place. She smiles just thinking about it now— a loyal queen indeed.

He narrates while typing.

"What's indeed?"

"Indeed is almost like saying yes, when you think something is true."

She smells the aroma of chicken and rice.

“I think dinner is ready.”

“Indeed Queen Lola, I think you’re right.”

Macey swoops her over his shoulders fireman style and stomps down the stairs. "Hm, let's see, should I eat this tiny human for dinner or that delicious looking meal over there?" Lola giggles. “A hard choice indeed.” He puts her down on the floor and they take a seat. Gia gives him a look only he can translate, and mouths I love you.

(8:07 PM)

Macey reopens his document.

——

Oh, you’re a dad now. Lola Lang. February 27th, 2015. She looks like you.

You’re going to figure it out soon buddy.

I haven’t been journaling as often so the other week on my 39th I forgot to write me back, but here I am, still alive. Still here. I’ve got a wonderful family, Lola turns six on the 27th, and everything has changed.

All of it is always changing.

Today, with how much I’ve grown, I realize it was my fear of change keeping me under water at 27, 28, 29.

I didn’t have a healthy relationship with the cycles of life. I held onto “time” thinking it was something you could actually keep in your hand but you just can’t. I had to learn. A year from now I'll be 40 and maybe I'll be better at this memoir writing thing.

How do you end one of these?

Well, I’m Macey Lang. I like my name. I like your name. I might be a writer disguised as a Sales Representative. I’m not happy there. I’m happy here, at home, where I can write and have my daughter interrupt anytime.

I want to be happy.

That’s all.

A happy man can make a daughter and wife the happiest. I aim to make them so happy. If I can do that then I've won everything.

——

(8:45 PM)

Macey reads over his memoir, fixing a few typos and saving changes before submitting. Ah, I gave it a try. I can’t be mad at myself. He feels satisfied. But man, writing is hard. “Lola is asleep. Bath?” He swivels around in his office chair to see Gia standing at the doorway, and every bone in his body is glad to be done writing that memoir.

“Wow, writing is hard. Bath, yes.”

“What’d you write your memoir about?”

“Myself.”

“You’re annoying.”

(27 February 2021)

“There’s a story that wants to be told.” Macey tells Lola.

“A story?”

“Here.” He hands her a black notebook. Moleskine— customized, with a little gold heart on the front cover. “Happy Birthday.” Six-year-old eyes can get very big.

“Is the story in here?” He smiles and wraps her up with his father-arms, and the book hides between them. “No, not yet-”

“Right now the story is in your heart.”