Writing Memoir

Published in The Memoirist
Published in The Santa Barbara Literary Journal Vol.7 Oh, Fortuna!

Writing Memoir

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” — William Faulkner

How does one write memoir, something that to my mind reeks of pretension? I have stories filled with an intriguing cast of characters, a life to share. Each of us does, but it’s too personal, painful. Hemingway said: “There’s is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Then there's the fear that it's all mundane. I but I've come to believe that to know and write about a person, in depth, is one way to experience the magnitude of God, in that loving of someone.

When I write about the memory of catching lightning bugs with my sister, I relive that time again. I feel their wings beat in my hands, as I carry them upstairs, watch the intermittent glow inside the glass jar, and smell that scent like squished beetles. I drift to sleep, and I am nine years old. It's these brief moments, with the imperfect family of characters who shape our lives, that matter. This much I know.

I am, myself, three selves. First, there is the child I was. A child no longer, but the child with him he still has a voice and I can hear my little girl voice. I will take that invoice to the grave with me. It's integral, a part of who I am. I then there's another self, the busy, organized person who smiles and plays the social role: wife, teacher, friend, or mother. I make the appointments, set the clocks, send thank you notes and plan holidays. The adult self directs the orchestra of my life. Sometimes this conductor is over-bearing, even to me. Finally there's the self-deprecator, with an ongoing monologue, constantly critiquing, telling me I have nothing worthwhile to say. I've spent a lifetime reading great writers and I have to fight the insecure voice in my mind. A battle of sorts ensues as I remind myself to stop and listen to the real me; the quiet inner self, with stories. Writing is my way of figuring out who I am. It's when I know what I'm thinking with no pretense.

The internal conflict between truth and memory is constant. What do I really remember, or was the memory from a grainy photograph? The process of memory necessarily alters the thing being remembered. Facts get colored in the retail line, the hue can change according to the teller and to whom the story is being told. I might highlight, shade, and shadow events differently according to my audience. The same story being told to my grandmother might be modified from the way I tell it to my best friend, child, or husband. I'm not lying, simply changing the texture, emphasizing or omitting some facts, but it's still truth.

We all know the family dinner when every member has a different version of the same event. The older sister recounts a scene detailed from childhood and it collides with an entirely different account from her brother and so on. It usually goes something like this:

“Remember after Grandpa's funeral, Uncle Bill said he'd never see dad again. Then Dad stood right in front of Uncle Bill's old Buick and wouldn't let him drive away?" Oldest sister leans back in her chair.

“No, Uncle Bill stayed for the reception and Aunt Betty got wasted on that cheap wine. And Bill practically had to drag her away from Dr. Milton, so embarrassing." Younger sister folds her napkin.

“Oh God! That's not how it was, Uncle Bill didn't even come for the funeral and Dad was fit to be tied he was so mad." Youngest sister reaches for the butter.

Memory becomes a tennis ball hit back and forth, dropped, picked up again for another volley. It ricochets from one sister to another until the oldest brother backs up to hit the lob and slams the ball over the net. Match point.

“You weren't even born yet!" He yells. Mom leaves the table.

I am so I begin my memoir with a quote from a fellow Hoosier:

"All this happened, more or less…" — Kurt Vonnegut