It was great to see so many of you at the recent workshop:
Writing Memoir: Getting Started
The publicity for this workshop was centered on the concept of “priming the pump” – getting ideas for writing. This workshop was sponsored by the Pierce County Library System (PCLS) and presented via Zoom.

In my introductory remarks, I said that participating in a Zoom workshop is like sitting around a table. After all, we can see each other’s faces and learn each other’s names. Indeed, it felt like a dinner party and we had a rousing good time.

One of the exercises was what I call “Lightning Fill-in-the-Blank.” I read out-loud ten sentences that each had a missing element. Each participant had just seconds to jot down a few words to complete that sentence. After all ten sentences had been completed (in writing) by participants, I read each sentence, calling on participants, by name, to quickly share their “answer” for each sentence. This took full advantage of the Zoom format, and it was amazing to see the diversity in responses.

Here is the prompt we used:

Lightning Fill-in-the-Blank

1. I was born in or near the city or town of ____________________
2. As a child, I was __________________. (an adjective that describes your temperament)
3. I loved to ________________________________
4. I have happy memories of ______________________
5. Sometimes I got in trouble by (or was stressed by) _________________
6. Someone who made a difference in my life was _____________
7. I was good at _____________________
8. A challenge I faced was __________________
9. One of my personal qualities is ___________________
10. I want to be remembered as someone who ________________

Challenge: Try using these questions with a group that you’re in — whether it’s a coffee group, a book group, a family group, or whatever. It’s a great conversation starter and even among people who know each other well, it can elicit new revelations along with some laughs. And when it comes to memoir-writing, the last two questions provide a road map to the theme of your memoir.

This is an “open microphone” challenge. Please send in whatever you would like to share! Thank you!

Click here to send in entries!

The Moth Radio Hour is an inspiring radio program featuring personal stories. It can be found on many NPR stations. As a nonprofit, The Moth aims “to promote the art and craft of storytelling and to honor and celebrate the diversity and commonality of human experience.”

We memoir writers can learn much from The Moth – by listening to the stories on air and by reading the new book, How to Tell a Story (2022).

After putting the book on hold at my local library, I finally got my turn to read it, and it was worth the wait.  I’m excited to tell you about this book which includes 1) Everyone Has a Story, 2) Developing Your Story, 3) Telling Your Story, and 4) The Power of Story.

Yes, the book is about oral storytelling as opposed to memoir writing. But there is much overlap.

I will highlight some takeaways from How to Tell a Story.The book is dedicated “To the undiscovered stories in all of us.”  And, the authors state that the telling of these stories allows us to connect at a deeper level.

The first section, Everyone Has a Story, begins – “While your experiences are ephemeral, your stories can be eternal.” The authors say, “Stories are the currency of community. They tear down walls, unite cultures, and help people realize they are more alike than different, all the while celebrating what is unique to you.”

They add, “When you craft a story, you hold each piece of your life up to the light and say, ‘Yes that mattered’ …”

The section, Developing Your Story, has many helpful tips. For example, they suggest that a storyteller focus on a specific time frame – a single scene or perhaps a particular week, month, or year. Another tip is to look for the meaning of the story.  You may begin by saying, “This happened, and this happened, and then this happened.”  But go further and ask, “Why is this story important? How did this change me or help me realize something?” You might be tempted to end with the words, “I’ll never forget that.”  But try to go a bit further:  WHY will you never forget that?

The section, Telling Your Story, is focused on performance. Even if your goal is a written piece, look for opportunities to share your stories out loud – perhaps at a family reunion or holiday gathering.  Here’s a useful tip:  If, while telling your story you are suddenly overcome with emotion, don’t try to squelch it. Rather, pause and let the emotion run its course before continuing. Such moments do happen and they speak to the power of storytelling, regardless of what shape it takes.

Finally, The Power of Story speaks to the ripple effect of storytelling. Stories can bring about positive change and even launch movements. But a story need not be huge, historic, or dramatic. Every story takes on a life of its own while forging a path for others to tell their stories.

The book closes with these words: “Your stories matter. Tell them. We’re listening.”

Challenge: Think of a memory you would like to share. Talk about it with a trusted friend or relative. Then write about it.  We would love to hear about your experience!  Please use the link below.

Click here to send in entries!

These are words we hear a lot these days as we all struggle to make sense of a chaotic and divided world.

Personally, I’ve found writing to be an anchor. This began when I was 13 and began keeping a diary – actually writing to an imaginary friend named Ken. I could pour out my thoughts to Ken who, as an imaginary friend, was completely nonjudgmental. Was it a matter of being myself? Or was it a matter of becoming myself?

What I discovered about writing at that early age is that we don’t sit down to write what we’ve already figured out. Rather, we sit down and write as a way to figure things out.

This month I found a book called Write for Your Life (Random House, 2022) by well-known journalist and novelist, Anna Quindlen. I love this book for so many reasons. Quindlen shares her keen interest in the role that writing can play in the lives of virtually everyone. I recommend this book for those who love writing, and also for those on the verge of discovering writing as a tool for doing okay and being okay no matter what life throws in our path. Quindlen addresses journal writing, letter writing, and a host of other writing issues.

Write for Your Life includes some of my favorite quotes about writing:

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” – Anais Nin

“To survive, you must tell stories.” – Umberto Eco

“I can’t play bridge. I don’t play tennis. All those things that people learn, and I admire, there hasn’t seemed time for. But what there is time for is looking out the window.” – Alice Munro

“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

“In all my life, I have never been free. I have never been able to do anything with freedom, except in the field of my writing.” – Langston Hughes

“It’s like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E.L. Doctorow

The Nin quote and the Doctorow quote are actually in my book, Writing Memoir Together: A Roundtable Approach. I plan to add the other quotes to the upcoming revised edition.

Regarding the Doctorow quote, Quindlen makes the point that while he was referring to writing, this simile can also be applied to life itself. In these troubled times, sometimes all we can do is figure out the next best step.

I hope you’re finding that next best step and taking it with confidence. Be kind to yourself. And if it feels right to you, make time to write.

This is an “open microphone” challenge. Please send in whatever you would like to share! Thank you!

Click here to send in entries!

November 12, 2020 by Joan Tornow

I think it’s safe to say that all of us have been impacted by Covid-19. In the United States, it was March, 2020, when the pandemic began to take center stage in this country.  Shelter-in-place mandates began in California and soon were implemented in other states. The wearing of masks, social distancing, and the frequent washing of hands became a part of everyday life. As our daily lives changed dramatically, we had to deal not only with economic impacts, but emotional impacts. How are you doing? I hope that you and yours have remained safe and healthy, but many have suffered. There has been a tragic loss of life. Meanwhile, we’ve all had to make adjustments in our lives as we adapt to the ‘new normal.’

Below is a piece I wrote about one aspect of the pandemic. I invite you to read this and then to write and submit a piece of your own. What has been your experience? What has been the “outer” story for you (“just the facts”).  And, what has been the “internal” story for you (what goes on in your mind and heart.)

“Kerpluie”: Early Days of Sheltering in Place
Joan Tornow

My three-year-old grandson and I walked barefoot across the grass to that part of the backyard where mint grows alongside basil, rosemary, pineapple sage, and a host of other herbs. Carter carefully picked a few mint leaves and chewed thoughtfully on one.

“This is my favorite!” he said.

“Yes, I like that one, too. But smell this one,” I said, extending a sprig of basil toward him. “Grandpa and I like to put this in our spaghetti.” Spaghetti was one of the comfort foods now a staple of our Covid-19 menu.

Carter gave the basil a brief sniff before wrinkling up his nose. “It’s okay, but I like mint!”

Carter had been staying with us for a couple of weeks now, and he confidently made his way around our house and yard. With the resilience of youth, he had quickly adjusted to staying with us, happily telling his parents, on Facetime, about each day’s activities.

Shelter-in-place orders were still new, and we were all adjusting to the new normal. My husband and I, both over 70, were healthy but did have a few underlying health conditions. I had even been referred for a cardiology assessment which I had canceled after hearing that hospitals should be avoided when possible.

Everyone wondered if the local hospital would be able to keep up with the fast-growing pandemic. Governor Inslee hosted frequent press conferences where he and others stressed the urgent need to flatten the curve so as not to overwhelm health care services. Just a few days earlier, Dr. Birx, of the White House Covid-19 Task Force, had said, “The pandemic is growing exponentially. This would not be a good week to go to the grocery store!” We were grateful for a young woman from our church who had twice dropped off groceries on the porch as we waved and smiled from inside.

In general, grandparents were advised not to hang out with their grandchildren, but there were exceptions. In our case, Carter happened to be staying with us, in the suburbs, for a few days when the shelter-in-place orders suddenly went into effect. Both his parents are essential healthcare workers in Seattle, so we carefully considered the best path forward. If Carter were to return to his Seattle home, his other grandmother – his regular daytime caretaker – would need to continue commuting by city bus, adding another layer of risk. We agreed that the health hazards were centered in Seattle. So, John and I readily agreed to keep Carter with us for a few weeks. By that time, we figured, testing would give everyone a better idea of how to proceed.

One morning I heard a radio report on what was happening in Italy. Their ICUs were so overwhelmed that difficult decisions were being made. Medical ethics dictated that because older people had fewer years left to enjoy, they would be given a lower level of intervention than those who were younger. Some older patients were simply given palliative care as they faced their final hours.

This triage sounded like a sensible and ethical policy, given the limited resources during the current crisis. Healthcare workers across our country decried shortages of masks, gowns, ICU beds, and ventilators. I wondered what fate awaited me: Would I arrive at the hospital in respiratory distress and be told to wait in my car? Or, would I be placed in a tent in the parking lot where, given the shortage of health-care workers (who, themselves, were falling ill), medical attention would be minimal or non-existent? Then I learned that my husband wouldn’t be allowed near me (assuming he was okay), and that added one more dismal detail to my forebodings.

Carter provided a delightful distraction. During the day, John, Carter, and I went on long walks through the neighborhood as Carter pedaled his Thomas the Train tricycle. We taught him to toss little rocks through the grates on the storm sewers, listening for the plop as they reached the water far below. I referred to the sound as “Kerpluie!” a word that sent Carter into gales of laughter. Indoors, we made rocket ships out of blankets and chairs. We taught Carter how to count down from ten, reaching zero and “Blast off!” We built block castles, played with playdough, and had impromptu jam sessions with ukulele and drum. We made chef hats out of printer paper, and whisked up batches of scrambled eggs. I’ve always relished the delights of a child’s perspective, so I was like a kid in a candy shop.

Each day, John, Carter, and I strengthened our bonds. But by nightfall, John and I were far more exhausted than our toddler-in-residence. The bedtime stories were not just a comfort to Carter but to me. It was calming to live in the world of The Pokey Little Puppy, The Berenstain Bears, Gerald and Piggy, or Peter Rabbit. These stories also reconnected me with my own childhood – a time when I felt safe, falling asleep with my teddy bear and looking forward to another bright and shiny new day — a blank slate with no clouds hovering overhead.

Although we told Carter he could sleep in our room, he liked being in his own room down the hall. After he was tucked in and sleeping, I watched a bit of the news as John powered down by doing the New York Times Crossword Puzzle. Unlike me, John is not cursed by overthinking everything with an exhaustive and exhausting pursuit of “more information.”

Each night, I watched Anderson Cooper, Anthony Fauci, and Sanjay Gupta –trying to keep up with CDC recommendations. I still hadn’t been able to find hand sanitizer – online or anywhere. And now I learned we should be making solutions of Clorox and water and regularly wiping down the counters and door knobs. And our cell phones needed to be disinfected, too. We washed our hands a lot but didn’t yet have face masks and were uncertain how to acquire them.

As I lay down to sleep, my worries would return to my mind like a flock of birds returning to a telephone wire after a brief flurry into the air. Once or twice each night, Carter would wail from his bedroom, and I would rush to comfort him. He returned to sleep within moments, but it took me hours. Carter arose early, and we started a ritual of having a peanut-butter toast “picnic” in bed each morning. This was fun, but by mid-afternoon, I was ready for a nap. Not so Carter! He and John played together contentedly while I caught a few z’s. No lullabies were necessary!

One day, Carter and I were dancing in the living room, just having a ball. He had slipped a Whitney Houston disk into our keyboard. John was out on his daily bike ride. I thought I heard the garage door open, signaling John’s return. “Grandpa’s home!” I said.

“Let’s hide!” said Carter. He ran behind a big overstuffed chair and motioned for me to join him.

As we crouched together in our hiding place, I noticed dog hairs on the back of the chair. This was where Toby had routinely scratched his back. Toby had died just six weeks earlier, and these fragments of our life together still surfaced from time to time. For example, I had recently noticed how each night, on my way to bed, I would still glance toward the corner where his water dish had been. Still checking to make sure he had water. No more Toby. No more water dish. But something in my brain had not yet accepted that reality.

Carter and I were nestled behind the chair, waiting for John to come indoors and find us. I wondered if I would ever want to remove Toby’s dog hairs from the back of the chair. Carter was giggling, thrilled with the anticipation of surprising his Grandpa. Carter loved nothing more than leaping out of a hiding place, even if it was just a matter of briefly taking cover under his blankie. Meanwhile, I realized that I probably didn’t hear the garage doors after all. It must have just been a helicopter or the distant rumble of a truck. But I’d stay hidden with Carter for another few minutes because he was so into this popular diversion!

The strains of Whitney Houston filled the air:

I hope life treats you kind

And I hope you have all you’ve dreamed of

And I wish to you joy and happiness

But above all this, I wish you love.

I was suddenly filled with a sense of all that had been lost in the face of this pandemic. Confidence about the future. A clear path ahead for my grandsons. Now, the lives of my two grown sons and their families were on hold. This isn’t what I had wished for them.

Carter still had the innocence of childhood. But I mourned for the loss of his preschool experience. I pictured him at his preschool, sitting around a little table with his buddies, eating their snacks and chatting — learning the skills of casual conversation, sharing and building their own culture — the best kinds of chips, whether strawberries are better than blueberries, whether the firetruck seen that morning was on its way to a fire or not. (“Well, was the siren on?”) Together these three-year-olds were learning to make sense of the world.

The world is beautiful, so much to see and learn and experience and share. But here we are, sheltering in place, not knowing when to come out. I gazed out from behind the chair and through the dining room window. The trees were still green, the sky was blue. All was not lost. The beauty of nature seemed more abundant than ever. In recent days, the roar of rush hour traffic had been replaced by bird song. It seemed that being grounded could result in just that: being grounded. We were reconnecting to the land and everything springing from it — the grass, the trees, the animals. Our loved ones.

And I will always love you

I will always love you …

I will always love you …

The music continued to soar through the room. Carter and I were still behind the chair.

Tears started to fall. Even though the CDC guidelines advised not to touch your face or eyes, I batted away the tears, hoping Carter wouldn’t notice.

“Why are you crying, Grandma?” he asked.

“It’s just the music,” I said. “Doesn’t music sometimes make you feel sad?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“I don’t think that was Grandpa after all,” I said. “I’ll let you know when he gets home, and we can hide again and surprise him.”

“Okay!” he said, eyes glowing with anticipation.

So, we jumped out from behind the chair. And we danced.

YOUR TURN:  What have you experienced during this time of pandemic and uncertainty? We invite you to write a paragraph, or an essay, on the topic of the pandemic. Then, please click below to send in your piece. Please indicate whether you wish a confidential response or whether we can publish your piece on this site. Writing can help people process difficult experiences and emotions. Even if you’re not in the habit of writing, this can be an opportunity to explore what you can do with the written word. Such essays can be healing as well as providing inspiration to others.
Click here to see what others have written!

 

 

Click here to send your thoughts about Writing about the Covid-19 Pandemic

See other current challenges

A great way to energize yourself to write memoir is to spend time reading memoirs! A well-written memoir is bound to inspire you to write your own! And, a well-written memoir indirectly gives you strategies and techniques to use in writing your own story.

I recently came across the beautifully-written memoir, Educated: A Memoir by Tara Westover. The title reflects the theme of the book – the struggle for the author to escape the family mandate to avoid school. Her father, whom she later realized must have suffered from bipolar disorder, was a paranoid and suspicious person who believed he was protecting his children by keeping them away from schools and from the broader American culture. Her mother, while not totally on board, went along with her husband’s rules on this and on most other family matters.

In the prologue, Westover uses an emblematic scene to introduce the memoir’s theme. She begins with the sentence, “I’m standing on the red railway car that sits abandoned next to the barn.” After describing the valley below, she gives us this stunning paragraph:

Turning toward our house on the hillside, I see movements of a different kind, tall shadows stiffly pushing through the currents. My brothers are awake, testing the weather. I imagine my mother at the stove, hovering over bran pancakes. I picture my father hunched by the back door, lacing his steel-toed boots and threading his callused hands into welding gloves. On the highway below, the school bus rolls past without stopping.

Wow! In just a few words, Westover has established the setting, the fact that she has brothers, the domestic role of her mother, the occupation of her father, and … especially … the fact that none of the kids get on the school bus. None of them go to school.

Westover devotes much of the first three chapters developing the back story of her parents, i.e., what their parents had been like. In Chapter 3, she reveals that her mother’s mother had come from the “wrong” kind of family but, after marrying a navy man, devoted her life to being “respectable” – with the white picket fence and other status symbols. But her daughter, Westover’s mother, had rebelled against all this “respectability” and had run off and married a sort of “bad boy,” Westover’s father. This back story adds depth to the memoir.

Another brilliant aspect of this memoir is the way that Westover identifies generational patterns. At her grandmother’s funeral, she realizes that her grandmother must have felt some of the same feelings she herself was experiencing:

Grandma was the only person who might have understood what was happening to me. How the paranoia and fundamentalism were carving up my life, how they were taking from me the people I cared about and leaving only degrees and certificates – an air of respectability – in their place. What was happening now had happened before. This was the second severing of mother and daughter. The tape was playing in a loop.

YOUR TURN: There is so much more in this memoir that I could comment on, so many strategies to tell a story with honesty and skill. I urge memoir writers to read Educated: A Memoir. And, I invite you to email us some of your favorite passages, along with why you like them. Any criticisms are also welcome. The idea is to read like a writer, noting what works and what, sometimes may not.

Click here to see what others have written!

 

 

Click here to send your thoughts about Educated: A Memoir

See other monthly challenges

So many memoirs don’t make it to the page because people are obsessed with perfection instead of progress. It’s not important to write the perfect word, the perfect sentence, the perfect paragraph. Just write! You can pick out your favorite parts and/or polish up your draft later.

Those of us who write on a regular basis have learned that writer’s block is usually the result of placing expectations on ourselves that are too high. So, if you feel blocked or worried about your writing, just lower your expectations. Tell yourself, “I’m going to sit down now and write two pages that will most likely be junk.” Then, start with the words, “I remember …” and see where it takes you.

Joel Saltzman, in his book, If You Can Talk, You Can Write, has gathered evidence from dozens of writers, musicians, and artists who say, in their own ways, that they do their best work when they are focused on progress, not perfection. Joel adds that he finds it liberating to say to yourself NOT, “I’m going to write something,” but rather, “I’m going to TALK about something on paper.” Indeed, I hear so many people talking about life experiences with great enthusiasm. Yet, when they contemplate writing these stories down, they are suddenly gripped with a sense that it would be too hard.

Don’t make it so hard! Just grab a pen, pencil, or computer, and start talking on paper.

Joel makes the following point: “The more you talk on paper — without stopping to judge or criticize yourself — the better your chances of stumbling on something good. Then you can go back and polish, or edit, it later — after you’ve found it.”

Here are some of the quotes about the creative process that Joel has gathered:

“You have to have room to breathe, to screw around and have some fun. Maybe it makes for imperfect fiction, but it provides the writer with a kind of joy, of liberation.” — Stanley Elkin (p. 41, Saltzman)

“All I try to do is write music that feels meaningful to me, that has commitment and passion behind it….[If] what I’m writing about is real, and if there’s emotion then, hey, there’ll be somebody who wants to hear it.” — Bruce Springsteen (Salztman, p. 71)

“A writer’s material is what he cares about.” — John Gardner (Saltzman, p. 72)

“When I am in my painting, I am not aware of what I’m doing. It is only after a sort of ‘get acquainted’ period that I see what I have been about.” – -Jackson Pollack (Saltzman. p. 94)

“… [It’s] a kind of whittling, a honing to the bone, until you finally get whatever the hell it is you’re looking for. It’s an exercise in sculpture, chipping away at the rock until you find the nose.” — Stanley Elkin (Saltzman, p. 94)

I certainly recommend Joel Saltzman’s book, If You Can Talk, You Can Write. It is a lively and motivating book that reminds us that the first step in writing is simply to sit down and write. Ideas will come forth as you talk on paper. And, as these ideas and story lines emerge, you will find the process takes on a life of its own, just like when you’re sharing a personal story with friends or relatives as the dinner table! Don’t overthink it! Just do it! And enjoy!

This month, the challenge is to try sitting down to “talk on paper.” Practice just letting the words flow onto the page without trying so hard. You may want to begin with the words, “I remember…” and then promise yourself that you will write for a given amount of time … perhaps 10 minutes.

Let us know how this worked for you. And, if you’d like to share some of your writing, please send that in, too!

Click here to see what others have written!

 

Click here to send in entries!

See other monthly challenges

Many First Ladies of the United States have written memoirs, but I doubt if any are as elegantly written as Becoming by Michelle Obama. I encourage aspiring memoirists to read this memoir. Not only is Ms. Obama’s life story inspiring, but her writing style is also exemplary. It provides many examples of how to render a scene, how to bring memories to life, and how to draw meaning from even the simplest of life experiences.

In the early pages, Ms. Obama gives the reader a sense of what it felt like to be a child living in a cramped one-bedroom “in law” apartment on the second story of her aunt’s small house in South Chicago. Ms. Obama’s parents divided the living room of this apartment in half, providing makeshift bedrooms for Michelle and her older brother.

Below is a passage describing what it was like for little Michelle to entertain herself in this small space:

At home, I lived in a world of high drama and intrigue, immersing myself in an ever-evolving soap opera of dolls. There were births, feuds, and betrayals. There was hope, hatred, and sometimes sex. My preferred way to pass the time between school and dinner was to park myself in the common area outside my room and Craig’s and spread my Barbies across the floor, spinning out scenarios that felt as real to me as life itself, sometimes inserting Craig’s G.I. Joe action figures into the plotlines. I kept my dolls’ outfits in a child-sized vinyl suitcase covered in a floral print. I assigned every Barbie and every G.I. Joe a personality. I also recruited into service the worn-out alphabet blocks my mother had used years earlier to teach us our letters. They, too, were given names and inner lives. (Becoming, p. 19)

This small passage tells us so much about the author. She had a great imagination, she was very interested in socialization, and she was good at using the resources available to her. She goes on to say that she rarely chose to play outdoors with the neighborhood kids. Anyone closely reading her words will not be surprised by that fact, as she has already, indirectly, shown us what kind of child she was.

Ms. Obama later describes how she became more extroverted as a teenager, but remained a diligent and hardworking young person, with the number one priority to make good grades and live up to the high expectations of her parents. Years later, her father passed away after a long battle with MS. In describing this time, Ms. Obama again paints a scene that brings us close into her mind. The way she describes the aftermath of her father’s funeral brought tears to my eyes:

Later, we drove back to Euclid Avenue. The three of us sat at the kitchen table, spent and sullen now, our misery provoked all over again by the sight of the fourth empty chair. Soon, we were weeping. We sat for what felt like a long time, blubbering until we were exhausted and out of tears. My mother, who hadn’t said much all day, finally offered a comment.
“Look at us,” she said, a little ruefully.
And yet there was a touch of lightness in how she said it. She was pointing out that we Robinsons had been reduced to a true and ridiculous mess — unrecognizable with our swollen eyelids and dripping noses, our hurt and strange helplessness here in our own kitchen. Who were we? Didn’t we know? Hadn’t he shown us? She was calling us back from our loneliness with three blunt words, as only our mom could do.
Mom looked at me and I looked at Craig, and suddenly the moment seemed a little funny. The first chuckle, we knew, would normally have come from that empty chair. Slowly, we started to titter and crack up, collapsing finally into full-blown fits of laughter. I realize that might seem strange, but we were so much better at this than we were at crying.The point was he would have liked it, and so we let ourselves laugh. (Becoming, p. 145)

This month’s challenge is to read Becoming by Michelle Obama.  Read like a writer, noticing not only what Ms. Obama says but how she says it.  Close readings of quality memoirs like this are guaranteed to make YOU a better writer.  There is no better way to enhance one’s writing skills than to analyze, and appreciate, good writing that we are lucky to encounter!

Please submit what you come up with!

Click here to see what others have written!

 

Click here to send in entries!