The Strength of Your Memory Does Not Determine Whether or Not You Can Write Memoir

Much of my teaching of writing work is grounded in creative nonfiction, and especially writing memoir. In workshops and classes, we never run out of topics that are worth thinking about, discussing, studying in published works -- and sometimes, complaining or venting about! 

Into that last category so often falls the subject of memory and how often we are vexed and perplexed by its unpredictable nature. One day, we sit at the keyboard or notebook, and our fingers fly, fueled by churning, detailed memory that seems almost unstoppable, offering up voluminous details, vivid visuals, sharp and full lines of remembered conversations. 

We recall with certainty the weather on a particular day, the clothing we wore, the way a loved one cocked their head, the inflection in their voice. Without thinking almost at all, we're describing the furnishings of a room down to the smallest bit of bric a brac, what the house smelled like, the lilt of a particular birdsong that drifted in an open window. The way we felt, what we thought, our hopes and fears at that moment in past time are as close and clear as if it all occurred yesterday.

And when that happens, bliss. Memoir seems to write itself.

Then, there are some other days. Or perhaps I should say, most of other days. The memoir writer's page remains blank, not for lack of ideas, but because those memories float just out of reach. We remember some of the event, but not all. We can't be sure if so-and-so said this-and-that, and if they did, was it in fact, on that day, at that moment? Where, exactly, did the interaction take place after all? And was it before or after some other event?

Elusive, spotty, incomplete memories are something with which every write of creative nonfiction -- memoir, personal essay, nonfiction narrative -- must learn to cope. Recognizing the fallible, hazy, unreliable nature of memory has caused many a memoir writer to push their project to the back burner, or abandon it completely, in the belief that memoir writing is reserved only for those with a stellar memory.

To which I say: nope. 

Yes, you can write memoir, even if your memory isn't great.

In fact, that's the title of a post I wrote this week for the blog of the New York Open Center on this very topic. I'd love to share it with you. Here's an excerpt: 

No one recalls everything with precision. When I wanted to know more about how memory works, I began researching and studying. Three of the most profound things I learned and which have significance for the memoir writer are: 

1.       It is impossible for the average human brain to record with total accuracy even something that happened just minutes ago

2.      Our current memory of a past event is influenced by the stories we’ve told (and heard) over time about the original event 

3.      The act of remembering itself often begets additional pieces of related memory (Great news! The more you write about a particular memory, the more you might retrieve.) 

This all suggests that even if my memory were better, I couldn’t rely on it completely anyway. Once I understood this, my writing opened up. Without the grinding pressure to be “right” about every remembered detail, I began to regard my own initial memories as a starting place for writing memoir, but not as the only resource... 

You can read the full article here.

And if exploring the relationship between memory and writing memoir is of interest, I'd love you to consider my day-long workshop on the subject at the Open Center in Manhattan on Saturday, April 13. 

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- April 20, 2018 Edition

>Publishers Weekly reports on "A New Generation of African-American-Owned Bookstores."

> In case you missed it, the 2018 Pulitzer Prizes were awarded this week. Of note: the novel prize went to Less, by Andrew Sean Greer, which addresses love and growing older in the same breath and with humor. And in general nonfiction, Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder, by Caroline Fraser, the first complete and intricately researched biography of the beloved author.

> At a workshop I led recently, many memoir writers were working through stories of trauma and grief (as is usual), but at one point we explored why readers also need to experience some happy moments amid the sadness. Then I came across Laura Gilkey's post in the Brevity blog, and she said it so well.

> At The Writers Circle blog, Michelle Cameron's post, "Lack of Control" probably speaks for every writer with a manuscript their agent has sent out on submission to publishers. 

> Funds for Writers has advice for authors on how to connect with book clubs.

> At the Front Porch Journal blog, a look at a failed novel and the (fixable) problem of writing what you don't know. 

> Finally, two items for fun. In the maybe-I'm-not-so-odd category: "20 Quirks and Strange Habits: The Weird Side of Famous Writers." Someone opens to a random dictionary page when faced with writing description, then uses word he finds there to complete the task. And, always dependable for a laugh with his reports on humans (not writers) acting strangely, there's Dr. Grumpy in the House.

Have a great weekend!

Author Interview with Jean Harper about her memoir, Still Life with Horses

I devour memoirs and novels about horses—but I’m also a harsh critic when it comes to prose about our equine partners. That’s why I was so thrilled to read the stunning memoir, Still Life with Horses by Jean Harper, recently #9 on the Small Press Distributors’ bestseller list. Like a fangirl, as soon as I read the final sentence, I set out to connect with the author, who graciously agreed to answer my many nosy questions.

Jean teaches literature and writing at Indiana University East, is the author of Rose City: A Memoir of Work, and wrote and directed the documentary film “1:47”. Jean’s essays have appeared in The Florida Review, North American Review, Iowa Review, Harpur Palate, and Yemasee Review. She’s received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Indiana Arts Commission, has been a Scholar in Residence at the New Bedford Whaling Museum, and in residence at Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.

Please welcome Jean Harper.

LR: So you were writing about your horse and how you came to riding as an adult, for a few years, but struggling with shaping those drafts into a coherent memoir—and then had a turning point. What changed?

JH: I was at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and my studio looked out over a field. The first day, I was standing at the window, staring into space, not writing or really thinking anything at all, and then I saw a horse. A large, black, gorgeous horse. I had an apple left over from lunch and went out to see this horse. He came trotting up and leaned his head over the fence; I took bites of the apple and gave him bites. We shared that apple and I felt as though – even though I’m not really a believer in these things – that this horse was some kind of sign. I remember holding my hand out, empty of apple now, and the horse breathing on my palm. I thought of the James Wright poem, “A Blessing,” the last lines, when the poem’s speaker has been nuzzled by a horse:

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

And I knew that moment was how my book would end: with that black horse giving me a blessing, giving me permission to write. I went back into my studio, sat down, and wrote the chapter that would be the hardest to write. The rest unfolded from there.

LR: Your book was published as a result of winning the Howling Bird Press 2017 Nonfiction Prize at Augsburg College. I’d love to hear what that experience was like.

JH: Oh my, it was fantastic. I remember meeting the students at AWP in early 2017, and how interesting I found the idea of a publishing project working with MFA students. I liked the students, and liked the books they had on display, and so I decided I’d submit my manuscript. Their word limit was 40,000, which meant I needed to edit out about 15,000 words. Honestly, it was liberating. Whole chapters got the ax, plus anything that I had even slight doubts about. I was killing a lot of darlings. I highly recommend cutting a manuscript by 25 percent, even as an exercise! It will open up your work in ways you might not imagine.

Then, of course, you submit and you wait. Ironically, about a month before I got the call that told me I had won, I had a very disheartening meeting with a literary agent at a conference. The agent had read a portion of the memoir, and in our meeting, she pushed my pages across the table and said, “So, what’s the story?” I summarized it as best I could, and she shrugged and said, “Well, my horse died too. What’s the story?” The implication being, I suppose, that if I wasn’t famous, or my horse wasn’t famous, then the book was a waste of her time. I left that meeting about as discouraged as I had been in a long time.

Fortunately, the phone call telling me I’d won came soon enough. I’m a writer, but I am also a dedicated teacher, and the notion of working with students sounded just perfect.  The editing process was the best I’ve ever been through. The publisher, and faculty mentor, Jim Cihlar, is a thorough, gentle, wise, and very particular editor, and the main student editor, Katherine Fagen, was exactly the same.

For me, as a writer, the process of being edited by them, and the rest of the student team, was truly enlightening. Through Jim and Kathy’s guidance, I was able to see where things needed to be tightened, expanded, tinkered with even slightly. And then there’s the experience of working with a small, independent press, where you and your book are given close, personal, scrupulous attention. It was kind of like an intense workshop with very skilled practitioners. I only wish I could publish my next book with Howling Bird Press.

LR: You employ a segmented form within each chapter, and – I loved this – in between chapters, short (flash?) pieces, no more than a paragraph or two. These are visually varied on the page and have a different feel/voice, more like prose poetry, rich in imagery. Some draw on the narrator’s girlhood memories, art and mythology, equine psychology or behavior. When and how did these bits come about, and what did they mean to you?

JH: I have always loved playing with form in nonfiction, in service of the story, not simply form for form’s sake. In part, these prose poem pieces came about as an experiment, inspired by the “Entre’acte” pieces Mark Doty used in Dog Years. I found those short pieces between chapters to be very effective and intriguing as counterpoints to his main narrative, and thought I would try something like that. I’d also been playing with poetry and wanted to have the feel of poetry in the book, how through poetry we can come at things in a less direct, perhaps more mysterious and visual, even visceral, way.

So I was thinking about all this, and then when I decided to submit to Howling Bird, and had to cut those 15,000 words, I saved a few slices, images, moments, and re-fashioned them into the prose pieces. It was so interesting how it just clicked into place, and I found myself again thinking that the constraints of form—only 40,000 words—helped put a kind of creative pressure on the manuscript that really worked.

LR: In the book, the narrator begins to take control of a disappointing personal life as she’s learning to become a confident, capable horsewoman. Was that connection evident as you were living it?

JH: Absolutely, yes. When I got interested in horses I was about 40, and a complete and utter novice. I was also, and I think the book alludes to this more than once, terrified of just about everything related to horses: riding, lunging, ground work. All this fear, at the same time that I felt drawn to horses in profound ways, you’d think I would have taken a lesson or two and stopped. But I was also mentoring Mia, the young girl in the book, and I wanted, I think, to be a role model for her,to be that strong, determined, committed woman she could emulate and look up to. So I kept taking lessons, and kept going with Mia to hers, kept playing the role of a confident woman.

Then I got Buddy, and suddenly I was responsible for this beautiful, huge, unpredictable, wise, intuitive horse. That was really the tipping point: once I had Buddy, there was no turning back. I had to not simply play the role, I had to embody confidence and capability because he was a funny horse: brave about so many things, but terrified of others. We could trail ride anywhere, and he never shied once, not even the day we turned a corner on a trail and there was a fully opened bright blue umbrella on the path. He just kind of looked at it, and we kept going. But, he was afraid of very specific things: streams and puddles, wash stalls, horse trailers. So I felt my job was to teach, protect, and be his leader.

And when you learn how to be the trusted leader of a thousand pound animal, whose first instinct at any danger is flight, you learn a deep-seated sense of confidence in yourself. It’s confidence at the body level, the cellular level. You learn how to be calm in the face of fear, how to be centered, grounded. All of that did change me as a person, and did give me a new sense of self, allowing me to imagine a different personal life, both with and beyond horses. It also allowed me to be calm in the face of a somewhat turbulent personal life, and see a way past it, and thus, out of it.

LR: You’re a full-time college writing professor, so presumably much of your personal creative writing is completed on breaks, weekends, and other found hours, like other writers with “day jobs.” With each book, does that balance become any easier? Any advice for writers struggling to produce long works in short bursts of time?

JH: During the school year I have a small mantra I repeat to myself: “Touch the work every day.” Even if I only have ten spare minutes, and I can probably find that in any given day, I make a point of looking at what I am writing. I think about what I’ve got, where I’m going. I write one sentence, a phrase, a word. That’s incremental progress, of course, but it’s still progress.

On breaks between semesters, and in the summer, I work to create a large chunk of writing I can edit during the school year. I was fortunate to have a yearlong sabbatical last academic year and so wrote the first draft of my next book. It’s a bit of a mess, but that’s okay. It’s a draft.

You have to allow yourself to write badly. That’s what revision is all about: turning the bad writing into good writing. Now, back in the trenches of teaching, and committee work, and all the rest, I’m touching that draft every day. I would say that this particular process – create a full rough draft, then edit it over time – is something I have learned to do more fluently now, working on what will become my third book.

My best advice for writers is written on two notecards over my desk. 

The first: "All real writers go through this." The this being anything related to writing: getting stuck, searching for the right word, getting rejected, getting published, fiddling endlessly with a paragraph, getting it right on the first try. If you are writing and going through whatever you are going through, you have company. You are a real writer.

And, from Chuck Close: "A quilt may take a year, but if you just keep doing it, you get a quilt."

LR: It’s easy to get sentimental when writing about the profound relationships between a horse and human being, but sentimentality usually pulls down the prose. Your book is frequently loving, saturated with memory and meaning—but never sentimental or sappy. What was it like to write about an experience that clearly meant so much to you, without getting nostalgic?

JH: When I was first writing about Buddy, it was awful, to be honest. I adored that horse, and right after he died, I was completely wrecked. For months, I wrote in ragged fragments, just flashes of memory, words, images. And then I couldn’t write at all. It was just too difficult. When I finally went to the writing retreat for two weeks, I had the solitude and unbroken time to focus on the chapter about his death. I spent a lot of those two weeks just weeping. But I also was writing. I wanted to get his story right, to honor the life of that brilliant animal. When you love an animal, it's almost a primal thing. Especially with horses, you speak to each other in ways beyond language, through the body; so when I was writing about Buddy, it was as though my whole body was writing. It was exhausting; it was exhilarating.

I also had to give a reading at the end of the residency, and when I finally had a draft chapter, I practiced reading aloud what I had written about 25 times before I could read it without tears streaming down my face. And when I did read it for an audience of my new writer and artist friends, I was not the one weeping. They were. A painter came up to me afterwards and said something like, you know you’ve described the Pieta, don’t you? I hadn’t intended to do that, but I understood what he meant: the death scene I wrote was intimate, raw, a physical manifestation of grief. I think it’s that physicality, the details we can see and touch, that keep us from sentimentality. I know it keeps me from sentimentality.

LR: The artwork on the cover is gorgeous. The horse’s large brown eye, the way it’s mirrored in the sketchy lines, is so hauntingly, achingly lovely—to me it evokes the depth of love between horse and narrator. Is there a story behind how you came to find the artwork or what it means to you?

JH: I have a dear friend who works at an art museum; my friend is also a poet, and she and I were writing back and forth about what we thought the cover ought to look like. This was at the same time that design students working with Howling Bird Press were coming up with their cover ideas. My poet friend found the artist’s website and told me to go look. I don’t remember now if she found this particular painting, or if I did, but it was my poet friend who led me to it.

It took some back and forth between the press as we hashed out what the cover should look like, but I was certain this was the right image and so gently kept putting it before them. I think that’s the beauty of a small press too: they listen to the author, and care about the author’s vision for the cover art. I love this artwork too, and I’ve gotten to know the artist a bit, and she is just a delightful person, who really understands horses on a visceral level.

LR: You describe horse-related activities, behaviors, equipment, and medical issues so that those without horse experience can understand, but without talking down to knowledgeable horse-people. Was that was particularly challenging? Any advice for writers dealing with specialty topics?

JH: It was challenging, yes. I’ve read so many horse books that struggle to do this well, that it became a particular writing goal of mine to write good prose about horse “stuff.” Too often the prose is too technical and dreadfully dull, or overly explained and awkward, or convoluted descriptions of nuanced things that end up killing the nuance.

As a writer, I grew up learning to write by way of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, and still keep copies of that thin brilliant book in my office, so I can give it away to students. Strunk (and White) stressed the beauty of plain prose, and that is what I have come to value most. The ability to write plain, luminous sentences comes with practice and patience and more practice. I appreciate well-crafted extravagant prose, but I much prefer plain prose, the kind of writing that becomes almost invisible, allowing meaning to rise from the page without calling attention to the way meaning is made.

I also read widely, looking for this kind of prose, writers like Michael Cunningham, JoAnn Beard, John McPhee, Joan Didion. That, and I read everything that I write aloud, listening for the music of the sentences. If it falls flat on my ear, back to the drawing board. 

LR: You mentioned you have a current work-in-progress. Care to elaborate?

JH: I'm writing about five generations of women in my family, going back to a whaleship captain's wife in Nantucket. I am very interested in how women in this family, probably many families, tell stories about themselves and to themselves. I'm interested in how stories of the past shape our present, how stories get passed down, passed around, altered, the alterations becoming accepted as true, about the power stories have over us, how arguments are embedded in stories, yet in a way we almost don't see them, we just see the story. 

Currently, I have a draft of this book done, and am slowly but surely working on revisions.

Connect with Jean Harper at her website/blog. You can read another interview with her about publishing the memoir at the Howling Bird Press website.

Images: Book cover and headshot, courtesy Jean Harper. Inside book, L. Romeo. Strunk & White: royalty free clip art.

Top 20 Most-Read Blog Posts of 2017 on Lisa Romeo Writes

As another blogging year ends, I'm grateful to have continued to connect with other writers and readers, and for the many intelligent, interesting, generous guest contributors who have shared their wisdom and experiences. (And while I now have a newly launched, full website, the blog will continue.)

Which brings me to the top 20 most-read blog posts of 2017, which I'm happy to say include several guest posts from writers I've been lucky to host. 

In case you missed a few the first time around, now's a great time to catch up.  Especially number 14, which suggests a terrific thing for writers to do before 2018 begins!  (Friday Fridge Clean-Out posts are not listed.)

1. Guest Blogger Melanie Brooks on: Writing Your Story, and Crying if you Want (or Need) To

2. Memoir Cover: First Peek (Happy Birthday, Dad)

3.  Memoir Book Report – Part III: The Pitch Session that Changed Everything (even though it was "unsuccessful")

4. Memoir Book Report, Part V: Weathering the Query & Manuscript Submission Cycle, from Confusion to Contact to Contract

5. Being Ethel to a BFF's Lucy Yields one Personal Essay after Another

6. Memoir Book Report: Process, Production, Path to Publication – Part I: Sign, Wait, Hope, Think, Revise

7. I Resolve to...Read. And read and read and read and read

8. What I Heard and Learned at the AWP Writers Conference

9. Guest Blogger David Galef on: One Solution to a Lot in a Little Space -- The Flash Vignette

10. Read-Along. Like a Ride-Along. But with books.

11. Memoir Book Report -- Part IV: Title Roulette

12. Guest Blogger Martha Moffett on Writing Submissions and the Race to the Bottom: The Rejection Club

13. Of Paper, Files, Age and Advice

14. What's on Your Writer's *I Did It List* for 2017?

15.  Guest Blogger Pam Lobley on How She Wrote a Parenting Book Without Really Meaning To

16. Writer Fights AWP Siren. AWP Wins. Notes on a Last Minute Writers Conference Trip.

17. Memoir Book Report: Part II -- Final Manuscript Revisions

18. Guest Blogger Marjorie Simmins on Memoir, Starry Night Memories, and What She Learned from a Workshop Student

19. Home from Hippocamp with a Bunch of Thoughts about Writers Conferences

20. Guest Blogger Judy Mollen Walters on Creating Fictional Worlds From What We Know

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- December 8, 2017 Edition

> Do you love "Best books of 2017" lists? Then check out this compilation of ALL the lists, conveniently linked. Largehearted Boy has got you covered. (Fair warning -- you need time for this list of lists!)

> If you missed it, here's video coverage from the National Book Awards. (via NPR)

> Staying with NPR for a moment, have you checked out their Books Concierge app? Especially this guide to their pick of top books for 2017.

> One of my pet editing peeves is telling, then showing; or showing, then telling; or (horrors!), telling, showing, and then telling again. Allison K. Williams has a cure for that, and related ailments, over at the Brevity Blog.

> I had fun sending in my own 13-word love story, when the New York Times' Modern Love column put out a call for them earlier this fall (to celebrate 13 years of ML). Mine didn't get selected, but these did.

> Aminatta Forna, in the New York Review of Books, tells of the seemingly unending fallout from publishing a family memoir.

> Finally, I'm pleased to be included in Booksie's new list, Top 100 Writing Sites 2017, especially since I'm sharing the honors with so many bloggers and websites I respect.

Have a great weekend!

Guest Blogger Stephanie Urdang on the Differences between Writing Her Own Memoir, and Writing Someone Else’s Memoir

Occasionally a writer I meet at a conference (or online) confides that it’s hard to find other writers where they live. I have no idea what that might be like: the part of northern New Jersey where I live might be dubbed Writerville. Stephanie Urdang lives here too, though she was born in Cape Town, South Africa. Her memoir, Mapping My Way Home: Activism, Nostalgia, and the Downfall of Apartheid South Africa will be published this month. She is also the author of two books on Africa, including And Still They Dance: Women, War, and the Struggle for Change in Mozambique. Stephanie is currently working on a book with a survivor of the 1994 Rwandan genocide (forthcoming in spring 2019).

Please welcome Stephanie Urdang

It took me about ten years – but who’s counting – to complete my memoir, Mapping My Way Home. It is taking me about one year to write a book with a survivor of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda, who was eleven at the time.

            The first book is my story, my history, my memories. It charts the events on the international stage -- in which I was a participant or close observer -- that contributed to the end of apartheid. In the process of writing it, sub-themes raised their heads and demanded space as leit-motifs: the sense of home, the nagging of nostalgia, the concept of exile, all interlinked.

            The second book is Gustave Mukurarinda’s harrowing but courageous story. It is his story, his history, his memories. I am writing it in close collaboration, in the mode of creative nonfiction. We are co-authors.   I am the writer. But he is the storyteller.

            My memoir was my first sortie into creative nonfiction. It was a learning curve. I had to tap into a more literary style of writing, freeing myself to explore more evocative and lyrical ways to bring a scene to life, to describe a context. I had to rein in my tendency toward streams of consciousness that sent my narrative veering off course; I had to subdue, no exorcise, an inner voice that would exclaim “Who the f*#k I am to write about my life!”.  I had to learn to scale the inevitable writer’s blocks that told me I was incapable of doing justice to this project.  And I had to allow myself to relish, in the moment, the highs when my writing was flowing and it felt right.

Writing my own memoir provided basic tools for writing the Rwanda book, which is still in draft.  But writing a memoir in collaboration is a very different undertaking, although some of what I had practiced in my own memoir could be applied: forgoing my first-instinct journalistic style and adopt a more literary style;  thinking more intentionally about craft;  taking a critical scene remembered in just a few snippets, and fleshing it out, completing with dialogue; transforming an often fabulous but too lengthy anecdote or scene and trimming it to size so that it doesn’t dominate.

            Writing in collaboration is another learning curve entirely. From it I can tease out a few lessons that for me were “musts”.

The need for trust. Without mutual trust and respect the collaboration will founder. In our case, trust began some ten years ago. I had established a small US-based NGO, Rwanda Gift for Life, that partnered with African Rights, in Kigali. The project supported women who had been raped during the genocide and were living with AIDS. Gustave was on the staff of African Rights and acted as my interpreter when I visited Rwanda. We spent many days together. Later, he stayed at my New Jersey home for a few weeks on his way to Canada where he now lives. Once we began working together, I could appreciate that more than friendship was needed. Without a deep sense of mutual trust, a writing project such as ours could not move forward. There are times when this trust is tested. When he doesn’t approve of the way I am casting a scene, when he thinks the narrative is veering in the wrong direction, we are able to discuss, and where necessary, come to a compromise. We move on, knowing that the next glitch will be met with the same mutual respect, the same trust.

            Need for clarity about scope.  There should be as few surprises as possible. We made our expectations clear from the beginning, including the audience, the writing process, the deadlines. Before I began to record his story, we talked about the nature of creative nonfiction, how my intent was to produce a narrative that reads like fiction. We agreed the book would target a young adult readership, while also appealing to adults. Based on this understanding, and our lengthy interviews, I drafted three sample chapters. Gustave liked how I was conveying his story, how I was portraying his voice. Only after this did we feel confident moving forward. We agreed on the publisher’s terms and both signed the contract. We could begin in earnest.

            Accept that this is not the writer’s story.  Even with the best of intentions, it’s too easy to get carried away, and begin to think that the book is the writer’s alone, given the thought and hard work that goes into drafting it. I had to be careful not to imprint myself onto the story, and to stay true to Gustave’s voice. Ultimately every word is to be approved by him, it is his story, his family’s story, not mine.

            Accept criticism without defensiveness.  There were times when, as a westerner, even though I grew up in South Africa, even though I have written widely and for decades on Africa, I discovered that I was not as sensitive to Rwandan culture as I would have presumed. I made assumptions, or used language that caused him discomfort. I tended to pride myself that I wouldn’t fall into such traps. I did. He pointed them out politely when he deserved to be annoyed.

For example, cows are central to Rwandan culture. They are revered. I described Gustave’s father’s herd as containing Jerseys, Friesians, and “skinny African” cows. I recalled seeing cows that were, well, skinny. But this is no benign, neutral term. It was an insult. It reflects western bias. I apologized when he pointed it out. I was able to laugh at myself; he was able to laugh at me. Another similar lesson: I created dialogue between his brother and mother that was inappropriate to Rwandan culture where children were expected to be polite and respectful of adults and not assume to join in adult conversation unless invited. When he points out the error of my ways, all I feel is relief. It allows me to feel safer in my role as writer of his story, knowing that I will be challenged when I don’t get it right. This too reflects trust.

            Figuring out structure.   Structure can be a real challenge for memoir writers.  There is a life-time of material to draw on, so much that seems vital, but in the end really isn’t, that getting the flow and arc can be daunting. There is a deep emotional connection. But writing someone else’s story means the writer comes to the project from a distance and can discern the narrative’s scaffolding earlier on.  In my case, this process began soon after Gustave’s stories poured out during our many hours of skype interviews and I became energized by the twists and turns of this action-packed narrative. The story pulls me along without me being stuck trying to see the wood for the trees.  And so I am less encumbered to push the story forward, even as sometimes it brings me to tears.

            I have come to see, that when a memoir is written in collaboration, the story teller is the one to give birth. The writer is the midwife.  

           

Note: If you too are local to Writerville, you can catch Stephanie at Watchung Booksellers (Montclair) onThursday evening, Nov. 30, at 7 pm, and further afield, and at Powerhouse (Brooklyn), on Wednesday, Nov. 29 at 7 pm.

Stephanie would be delighted to answer any reader questions left in the comments over the next week or so. She’d also love to give one of my blog readers a signed copy of her book. Enter by leaving a comment by Sunday, Dec. 3. [Must have a U.S. postal shipping address.]

Connect with Stephanie at her website, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- October 13, 2017 Edition

> A fan of Ove Knausgaard? Watch his keynote lecture, "Why I Write,"  given last month at the Windham-Campbell Prizes at Yale.

> My former student, current friend and colleague Ryder Ziebarth, with wise words about fewer words, over at Brevity's blog.

> Speaking of eliminating needless words, at Hunger Mountain, Pam Houston talks (quite briefly!) about how weeding out "widows" sharpened prose in her new book (and if you're even a little bit of an old-time-journalism-lover, you get this).

> At a literary journal blog, I like good questions but shortish interviews, like this one at Barnstorm with Devin Murphy on his debut novel, The Boat Runner.

> But on the radio (or podcast), I prefer a longish ramble, like when Leonard Lopate, on WNYC, talked with Jennifer Egan about her new novel Manhattan Beach, (and a little of what she likes and doesn't like about how long it takes to write her books).

> It was fun to be interviewed, along with several other memoirists, in Andrea Jarrell's reported essay, "Shaping a Memoir from Essays" on the Proximity blog.

> I'm beginning my long-range book marketing/PR planning (six months and two weeks till launch day), so I'm bookmarking articles like this one at SheWrites, with 30 tips (mostly for indie authors, but plenty are useful for all authors).

> Finally, all that great advice about how to get the writing done when you have a job, kids, blah blah? One advice-giver admits, it's harder to follow than dole out.

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons-Inkknife_2000/DonGraham

Memoir Book Report: Part II -- Final Manuscript Revisions

This is the second in a series, following my memoir manuscript from contract to published book.

Late May and most of June were dedicated to final revisions. I happen to love revision; that precious second (third, two-hundredth!) chance to work on precision, so the reader will understand what I'm trying to say, describe, recreate. Making sure I do, too. And, in the process, often discovering new, perhaps tiny but crucial points.

As I mentioned in the first installment, the best part about making those revisions was being deeply immersed in the world of the book for weeks. This allowed me to be more curious about things I'd already written. Now, I could think more about those events that helped shape the narrative and ask myself additional questions. Was there anything new to learn, to weave in?

The memoir's main story is about my reconnecting to my father after his death, while I was in the middle of marriage, motherhood, and an MFA. Several important flashbacks and backstories though also come into play, helping a reader understand how Dad and I once interacted earlier and the particular world we occupied.

The memoir writer works hard to recreate that vanished world. I'd thought I'd done that—and where I'd struggled, my earlier beta readers had pointed out where more work was needed, and I'd attended to it months before. And yet, coming back to the manuscript again, I saw places where that world wasn't quite as clear as it could be. The revision recommendation notes from my publisher highlighted a few areas I thought were done, done, done.

At first, reading some of those revision recommendations, I had a sense of "Nah, don't think so." But when I let the ideas settle in my head for a few days, I realized it wasn't about anything being "wrong" with the manuscript. Instead, these were opportunities for better clarity and richer storytelling.

For example, I was urged to write more scenes about our family's first class travels when I was a child and teen, as my father's income rose; to introduce and develop the character of my childhood BFF earlier in the text (she frequently traveled with us and still figures in the story 40 years later when Dad dies); and to expand the material about my life in the competitive world of horse shows (which my father financed).

As I re-read and re-read the manuscript—three times through, with pencil, sticky notes, and highlighter in hand—I saw where there were still openings and that filling them would only enhance and deepen the story, more effectively inviting in readers who'd otherwise have no means to visualize certain events and understand their emotional significance.

Then, I began addressing each of the revision recommendations I had agreed to. (A few, I had successfully argued against.) Some of this involved excavating original draft pages from the files, locating notes I knew I once made but didn't use the first time around, to get at the needed information (hence, the many piles and sticky notes all over my desk, above).

First, I "fixed" easy things—deleting bits of repetitious material; fleshing out a secondary character; clearing up one chapter's confusing timeline; smoothing a few tense shifts; moving a couple of passages into places that made more intuitive sense.

Next, I concentrated on writing new material. A vintage postcard triggered a flashback about the Las Vegas hotels we stayed at long before my parents built their dream home and retired there. Paring a section about my father's smoking led to a new passage about how I once smoked to mask feeling like an outsider in the rarified air of horse shows populated by heiresses.

When I set out one morning to write a scene from our family's grand European tour when I was a nine-year-old, what emerged were a few sweet and loving exchanges between me and my father I hadn't thought of including—and which became the new prologue.

As I wrote more about my BFF, I asked her over for coffee, so she could read some new material—and as we talked, I learned something I wasn't expecting, and that information helped me round out an altogether different paragraph that had been bugging me. I asked my sister to read some pages and fill in small details of family history that perked up a few sentences. I worked through with my husband a chapter that peeks behind the curtain of some private marriage and in-law moments.

Doing all that and seeing how much it improved the manuscript gave me the emotional fortitude to take a long, second look at how I'd written of my relationship with an often prickly family member with whom I was often at odds. In a sense, I took myself back to Memoir Writing 101: Don't Be a Victim on The Page. I had to ask myself how much of this other person's behavior and its effect on me was, in some respects, about me, not them.

Along the way, I noticed how several things could be improved with a simple red line—a big X through sentences, paragraphs. Some became irrelevant in light of new, better material. Some became redundant as other areas grew in depth from revision. Though I preach it often, I was reminded yet again that DELETE is not only an option, it's often a friend.

Once I felt the revised manuscript was in top form, I asked my husband and elder son to read it in full, for the first time. They each had a few good suggestions that made their way into (or out of) the book.

Finally, I proofread. And proofread again. Prepared the manuscript in the exact format the publisher requested. Held my breath, and hit SEND.

Days later, I found a typo. I marked it on my hard copy, which I'd printed on pale purple paper. Just because. I didn't panic because I'd learned well already: writing is solitary, but publishing a book is purely collaborative. I'm looking forward to working with my copy editor.

Onward.

Image of X - Flickr/CreativeCommons-KarynChristner

   

Memoir Book Report: Process, Production, Path to Publication – Part I: Sign, Wait, Hope, Think, Revise

Perhaps you already know that my memoir is under contract with University of Nevada Press for a late spring 2018 publication date. I thought it might be interesting—and could possibly help preserve my sanity—if every so often, I post a Book Report, sharing what's happening as I make my way from manuscript to published book.

Today, I'll backtrack a bit for a glimpse into the early process of working with a university-affiliated publisher.  

With a university press (in many, though not all cases), you sign a contract and then—you wait, and you hope. Yes, they want to publish your book, but it's not a completely sure thing, not just yet. I signed my contract on April 11. The next step is feedback from "peer reviewers"—respected professionals in the genre (in my case, memoir), who the press asks to read the manuscript and offer substantial feedback—pro and con.

The period of time when my book was out with the peer reviewers? Let's just say I had few fingernails left of any appreciable length. Fortunately for me, this element was fast-tracked, so it was only a month of waiting and wondering, a month of plunging and soaring emotions: They'll hate it…They might love it…I hope they at least like it. (I tried not to think about author friends whose books were dropped because of poor peer reviews; when I did think of that, I reminded myself that those books were eventually published elsewhere.)

Alas, the reviews were overall positive, and I was relieved that many of the suggested revisions aligned with my own instincts. Those weeks when I knew others were reading and judging my work? They were a chance for me to—as much as it's possible—cast a new, critical eye to my polished manuscript…and notice the places where the polish wasn't quite as bright and shiny as I'd like. I wanted to get to those revisions.

But first, the publisher's editorial board had to officially approve the project, and while it's never a rubber stamp, I was buoyed by the faith and confidence of the director of the press, who'd initially acquired my book. In advance of the board meeting, I needed to prepare a response note, referencing the reviewers' recommendations and outlining a plan for tackling revisions. I was lucky that the reviewers had given the manuscript such careful thought and made many smart suggestions, and that I had wonderful support from the press director—making the drafting of the response note into a creatively enriching endeavor for me. 

It became my revision roadmap.

Once the board said YES (on May 22), I had five weeks to revise. What followed was—except for back in early 2016 when I transformed the original linked essay collection into linear narrative—the most demanding, as well as the most gratifying part of the manuscript process.

But first I had to clear time and mental space.

I'm usually managing too much – teaching, editing, coaching, freelance assignments. I craved fewer demands, time to think clearly and creatively without the calendar as enemy. Fortunately, the academic semester had ended. I did ask some private clients to wait until I'd finished my revisions to begin working with me; fortunately they agreed. For a few others whose schedules weren't malleable, I matched them with amazing editors/coaches I know (I'm thankful for a superb literary community to call upon). Except for two small projects and some non-academic teaching, I wound up with about four weeks practically to myself.

This gave me the luxury to slow down, to think only about my book, to work when my brain was in best form instead of when I had to squeeze it in—and to do some extra research and supplemental reading I had long suspected would help enrich certain passages. I was able to "live inside the book" so to speak, to stay inside that world, deeper and longer, but without sequestering myself away. (Which led me to a new respect and desire for the benefits of artist retreats and residencies; alas, maybe next book.)

One day ahead of schedule, I hit SEND—tremendously relieved but also a bit wistful. In some small way, I wanted that concentrated deep-dive time back, more time to live inside the pages that, until then, had been mine alone. Now, those pages are moving along the production line to a time when others will enter that world—editors, art and production experts, eventually reviewers and readers. That's exciting. And a bit nerve-wracking, an odd sort of feeling.

Onward.

Update: Part II can be found here.

Stay tuned for future Books Reports about: the actual revision process (I loved it, it drove me a little nuts, I made mistakes, I learned); a look back at how I found my publisher; what key things I changed in my query before that; how I landed my agent; choosing photographs (yes, there will be pics!); permissions; and the thing that's occupying me right now: finding some fabulous titles to suggest to the publisher (did I say: publishing is collaborative?).

If there's anything you're wondering about, shoot me a question in comments and I'll try to cover in a future post.

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