About That Memoir…
In retrospect, it might just be stirring up sludge that would best be left undisturbed.
About eighteen months ago, the stirrings began in earnest. They’d been swirling around for years, as an itch, or ache, a niggling urge to record my life events — telling me that if I didn’t write it down, it would all disappear when I kick the bucket (which, as we all know, could be any day). I have decades worth of journals sitting on a shelf, but have never re-read, and I started feeling panicky about writing down “my story.” Granted, approaching the age of sixty-nine has contributed to the nagging feeling. The urge to set things straight, to tell that life story, in some fashion, was intensifying.
I’d always been drawn to memoirs, but suddenly I became obsessed with the memoir genre. Hell, I hadn’t even really realized it was a “genre”. I began doing the research, going down the rabbit hole of memoir authors. One led to the next, and then to ten more. I started digging up all the incredible memoirs out there, especially by women, who write about their extraordinary lives. Inspiring, frightening, funny, brave, tragic, enlightening, curious, dark, joyous. And true. All of them meaningful, filled with life lessons so beautifully put down in words, for me to drink in and get nourished by.
Authors like Mary Karr, Anne Lamott, Patti Smith, Joan Didion, Jeanette Walls, Cheryl Strayed, Frank McCourt, Dani Shapiro, Abigail Thomas, Stephen King, Annie Dillard, Elizabeth Gilbert, Alice Hoffman, Maya Angelou, Virginia Woolf, J.R Moehringer, and on and on. You get the drift, and you could add many more. All the greats, as well as plenty who are not so well known, but are great writers and have put their amazing life stories into words.
I started researching how to write a memoir, and found lots of authors and mentors who offer courses specifically targeted toward memoir writing. I read books by writers on writing, by memoirists on memoir, and learned about containers, storyboards, voice, structure, story and chapter arcs, conflict, the three acts, the Hero’s Journey in storytelling, and more. I busily gobbled up info and inspo from memoirists, including Marion Roach Smith and Joyce Maynard, among others. Last November, I took a three-day Memoir Intensive Zoom workshop with Joyce Maynard, and learned boatloads of stuff, which I’m still absorbing.
They all have different approaches in how they teach their craft, but they share the same basic idea — everyone has a story to tell, even me.
I started to read, and write, in earnest. I began to let other things in my life slip, notably my commitment to my art and studio practice. Friends kept saying “I haven’t seen you around” (meaning on Instagram, primarily), “What are you up to?”, “How’s your work coming along?” and I basically would say “Well, I’ve been writing a lot lately. Taking a break from painting.” They were confused. So was I, actually, especially when they asked “What are you writing?” The word “memoir” got stuck in my throat, as a whisper.
I dove deep into the main issue that my memoir would revolve around. Briefly, it dealt with personal loss, betrayal, letting go, a bad choice and the painful mistakes that resulted from it, and then the eventual recovery and rising from the ashes. In pulling my memoir together, I eked out scenes and a story arc, a basic chapter outline, worked on pacing and voice. I outlined the characters, changed names, altered places, and worked on characterization and dialogue. I thought that tackling this thing would be cathartic, healing. After all, there were some bizarre and titillating things that occurred, and I’ve lived to tell the tale. Confessing and clarifying mistakes and messy life choices would straighten out the wrinkles in my past, and be riveting reading for… for who? My daughters? My ex? All those people who were involved, except the ones who have died?
After all the research, reading and planning and studying, as well as several online workshops and courses, and my concerted attempts at writing, I’ve come to the conclusion that writing a memoir about those messy and painful parts of my life, while it might be cathartic, is in fact too messy and painful in itself. I imagine that the people who I’d want to read it would probably not. However — in doing all that research and reading and writing, I’ve discovered a lot about myself — the self I am now, and the one I was then.
I’ve also become more of a writer than I ever was, and best of all, I’ve discovered Medium as a platform to actually ”publish” what I write. And I’ve realized that the “personal essay” is actually a genre. Who knew? But it works for me.
I never really got to an actual, complete first draft of my memoir. But I have lots of fodder in case I ever want to switch it all up, and start a rewrite. Isn’t that what writing is all about, after all?
So thanks, Medium. I’m here, and writing, when I’m not painting.
