A RECENT STUDENT said simply, “I write to understand myself.” And I loved that. The world would be a better place if we all understood ourselves just the eensiest bit more, don’t you agree? Does it mean that all the people who are writing about themselves should publish? Of course not. In fact, this particular student has no aspirations toward publishing. And good for him. His aspirations delight me, as does his increasing awareness of the life he leads. How about you? Have you got something you’d like to examine about yourself? I bet you do, and that all you need is a little inspiration. Here’s some.

Here are some great reads that might inspire you to write down something about you.

One of my new favorite websites is Bookslut which, true to its name, is passionate about the printed page. Home to reviews, features, a blog, and columns, this is a place for lovers of the book. And it is here that I discovered Deb Olin Unferth, whose adventures in socialism sound like the perfect memoir for those of us who want to learn to laugh at ourselves while learning a little something about what one woman did to follow her political leanings. The title is Revolution: The Year I Fell in Love and Went to Join the War (Henry Holt).  It’s next on my bookshelf, and can be on yours, as well.

That book reminded me that I’ve been meaning to tell you about the astonishing Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family, (Harper Collins, 2011) by Tamara Chalabi, whose insights and exquisite use of details make this book positively shimmer. Chalabi’s father was among those who provided the U.S. with intelligence on weapons of mass destruction that led up to our misguided invasion of Iraq. Talk about a difficult detail to write about. She does it beautifully, and while you might think that details such as this do not appear in your life, think again. What gnarly thing is it exactly that keeps you from writing something down? Right. That one. Read this, and learn how to turn those previous obstacles into firm navigation markers. And here’s the beautiful part of Tamara Chalabi’s book: that is but one small detail of her story. Read it and learn, sisters.

For those of us newshounds who cannot get enough of life behind the keyboard/camera/microphone, there is a fine book by Belva Davis entitled Never in My Wildest Dreams: A Black Woman’s Life in Journalism. The first black woman television news reporter in the West, she has reported on some of the best stories of recent memory. Here is all you need to know: The incomparable Maya Angelou wrote of this book,  “No people can say they understand the times in which they have lived unless they have read this book.”

For those of us who like to eat and cook, and eat, and well, I guess this is all of us, the most fun I’ve had outside the kitchen is reading the brand new Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, by Gabrielle Hamilton, the famous chef from Prune, NYC’s cool-chic-fun eatery. Gabrielle Hamilton is a writer and a cook, and while you may know that she is among the best chefs around, the writing part, quite honestly, is giving her culinary skills a serious run for their money. This book is a total joy. The structure is the key here, and I will nor ruin if for you, except to say that you’ve rarely had more thrills reading about food, I promise. A contributor to The New York Times’ Chef’s Column, the New Yorker, Bon Appétit and other food magazines, Hamilton earned an MFA in fiction, studied at Iowa Writers Workshop and has the words to prove it.

Not to be outdone in the kitchen or the page, is Kim Severson, whose memoir, Spoon Fed: How Eight Cook Saved My Life. The Atlanta bureau chief for The New York Times, this foodie can write, as well, and dish, and tell a good tale about one’s life. What I love about her is her generosity, crediting those people who have taught her some good solid lessons. It’s an intelligent woman who credits those who educate her, yes, or do you not remember that is one of our 15 Rules for Us Girls to Live By?

Upcoming memoirs, you ask? We can look forward to a memoir by Ashley Judd coming out with All That Is Bitter and Sweet (Ballantine Books) in April. And then, my very favorite wait-by-the bookstore upcoming tidbit is that the great Angelica Huston is penning her memoirs, to be released in 2013 by Scribner in the United States and Simon & Schuster in Britain. She reports to be writing about “the exceptional highs and lows” of her life, and will discuss her famous father, John Huston, her beautiful mother, Enrica Soma, some insights into being part of the only family trio – grandfather, father (Walter Huston) and herself – to win Oscars and, of course, Jack Nicholson.

Read a good memoir by a sister, sisters? Add to my list, please.

No related posts.

CHEAP NOTEBOOKS ENJOY the singular fame of being one of only two things you need to be a memoirist. The other, of course is a pen. You can add index cards to the list, but if you go out into your daily rounds carrying little more than a pen and a notebook you can write memoir. And you know what? You don’t have to believe me. This time, I’m bringing in a reliable witness.

It’s The Pink of Perfection, and with a blog name like that, you can believe every word.

I’ve written before about the small toolbox needed to write memoir. But here, for the record, is the very best testimony I’ve seen in, well, forever. Read up, memoirists, and get to work.

No related posts.

WHEN SHEILAA SAYS there is a once-in-lifetime major transformational shift in my life, I listen. I do. And why not? Sheilaa knows. Don’t know Sheilaa? That would be Sheilaa Hite, the TSP astrologer, who writes this month that I need to get out in front of an unstoppable force and do something. Do what, exactly? Well, I’ve got a few ideas.

I remember the first time I read an astrology column. On vacation with my family in Mexico City, I was thirteen, and reading the local English-language newspaper, and spied the column.

“What’s this?” I asked my parents, both newspaper people.

Raised on The New York Times, I was not familiar with such journalistic endeavors. No one in my household read astrology columns, and certainly not in our daily newspaper of record. Both my parents made disparaging remarks about such items which, of course, served only to solidify my astrology column addiction then and there. I love them. I admit it. And while I do not plot my life by their advice, I do find in them a singular, heightened delight that I get nowhere else.

For instance, I love the archetypes of humanity that are called to mind while reading these columns, and have frequently defaulted to using astrology books when trying to fill out a character in my memoir writing. And while I’ve written about this before, it always bears repeating, since memoir writing is so DIY, and everyone should be glad to get all the help we can get.

So, since I am cooking up some new book ideas right now, I am doing the requisite research. And research at this stage of writing is a funny thing, looking – at least to this writer – like long walks in Manhattan (last week, while in NYC, hosting live radio), long walks back at home with my dog, days spent poring over photos at The New York State Archives, flipping through the pile of books set aside last year in anticipation of needing just this kind of inspiration, and, of course, reading widely, including things like astrology columns.

What are you writing?

Try starting your day with Sheilaa, and what she has to say about your life.

It might jumpstart something for you.

No related posts.

THE SISTERHOOD OF MEMOIR is alive and well, I’m happy to report. Despite the rumors of the death of publishing, marvelous books continue to appear all the time, many of which are not only great reads, but are also perfect primers for learning to write your own tale. Three books in particular come to mind, all of which I recently read, and all of which reaffirmed for me perhaps the single most important lesson in writing what you know. Remember what that is? Come along, and I’ll remind you.

I recently had the great good fortune to moderate a panel at the Spencertown Festival of Books, in upstate New York. Now in their fifth year, the keynote speaker was Susan Orlean, who was but one of more than a dozen authors invited to celebrate reading.

In preparation for the panel I moderated, I got to read three marvelous books, all recently published, all breathtaking, and all by women. And if that’s not good enough, when I arrived on the scene, I was delighted to find that the three authors were their own sisterhood, having previously presented together on panels and, as a result, having formed a pod of wisdom about writing what you know.

What a gift.

The writers are Alice Eve Cohen, author of What I Thought I Knew; Nancy Bachrach, author of The Center of the Universe; and Julie Metz, author of Perfection. Reading the three confirmed for me that making decisions of what not to do – what to leave out – are  just as daunting as those you choose to commit to paper.

This is what I pondered as I read the remarkable tale of the young husband who collapses and dies in the arms of Julie Metz, and how, during her grieving, she discovers that he had a very vibrant, and very separate life away from home. She reports the story, tracking down and communicating with the people in his other life, leaving me more than once to have to put down the book and stare out the window in contemplation of this shocking surprise, and her efforts to understand his other world. How much she learned about him—from his many sexual dalliances, to an utter spiritual change—is enough to carry you away until, that is, you think like a memoir writer, and begin to contemplate how she pulled this off, and did not merely get swallowed up in the enormity of the material. Her task was to choose wisely, and reading it, you know that she chose well.

The Center of the Universe is a tale of resilience, written by Nancy Bachrach, whose mother just might make you feel better about any crazy, outré, over-the-top mother you ever had, imagined, or heard about. And her mother is still alive. And yet, Nancy wrote this book, making it a great read, by not telling us her whole life story, or even her mother’s entire life story, but only about how complex—and entertaining, compelling, frustrating, and ultimately, illuminating—it is to have a mother who thinks of herself as that center of the universe.

What I Thought I Knew by Alice Eve Cohen is expertly crafted, using the device of a list—and you know how I love my lists – to take the reader through a tale of the real power of hope, as illustrated by perhaps the single greatest case of medical malfeasance I have ever imagined. Laughing and crying through this, the reader can almost feel Alice Eve wield her blade, cutting away anything extra, leaving only the sharpest of tales. It is brilliant.

What we leave out is a topic I’ve covered here before. But I’m about to start teaching again, making this a great time to bring back those basics to help you write what you know. Watch this space, writers, since I’ll be back with regular memoir writing updates, taken from my class curriculum. If you’re new to the site, please see all the other memoir-writing columns, and join in to learn how to write what you know.

No related posts.

ONCE UPON A TIME there was no sisterhood. This is back when we were new to a school, or grade, the new kid in a neighborhood or a Brownie troop, back when no one seemed to like us. And then one day some kid passed us a pencil, or laughed at our joke, or slipped us a note. And soon there really was an “us,” and nothing seemed more important, or special, or forever.

And then one day someone else was singing a tune in the playground. It sounded like she was singing about the rain falling on a plane in Spain, and that was enough for you to ask her how a plane could get soggy. And she laughed, and said, “No silly, it’s a plain,” and you still didn’t get it, but you nodded like you did, and learned the song anyway.

And then there were three of you who sang the song with your whole little-girl hearts, and were overheard by another girl who knew the song, and next thing you knew, you were a small pack of girls sitting in Sayre Berman’s living room, overlooking Little Neck Parkway, planning to put on a musical. It was My Fair Lady, and you would do this despite the fact that none of you had yet seen the brand new movie, or the production running on Broadway. This was 1965, and all you had was the album, and you hunkered down around its tunes like they were a new faith in a crazy world. You listened to it on Sayre’s parents’ wood-cabinet Victrola, and then someone started doling out the parts.

That would be Gwen. She’s the director. And she is Eliza, and no other Eliza will ever do as long as you live, because she’s the first kid who befriended you and nothing in the brain or heart can ever be as sweet a hook as that. And anyway, no one else in the fourth grade of P.S. 94 in Little Neck Queens in 1965 could belt out a tune like Gwen. No one.

And soon you were meeting weekly, and in that time together more than music was transposed, as Gwedolyn Schneidkraut became Gwen Olicker, as her family circumstances changed, and right before your very eyes Gwen Olicker became an English flower girl, and you became Henry Higgins, and together you stepped through the looking glass for the first time, taking that leap of faith you can only when someone else has your back. She learned her lines, and stayed after school, and directed the play, and did not laugh at your costume that included your father’s Brooks Brother’s hat.

And then one afternoon she and you and Pamela Bacchi, Sayre Berman, Roberta Rubien, Barbara Sender, Ellen Wasserman, Marie Docekal and Renee Steinhagen stepped onto the stage as an all-girl cast of My Fair Lady and nothing would ever be the same.

Other than the biological one into which I was born, this was my first sisterhood, and the promise—and the fulfillment of that promise—continues to suffuse the expectations I have every time I enter into an agreement with other women. My first standard, it is my gold standard, below which I will not slip. Because we pulled it off. And people applauded, and we were a huge hit. Or so I remember it.

And I’ve told this story a million times in the memoir class I teach, using it as an example of a story I have that has never found a place to live. I’ve got a million of them—and so do you: rich, wonderful moments of our lives that just miss the mark of being publishable because we do not yet know what they illustrate, what they are about. And knowing the difference between those life tales that have a reason to be retold, and those that must wait until we know what they are about, is the difference between getting published and getting another rejection letter.

And I loved that little story about the girls with their decidedly New York names, and the production, and the transposition we underwent to make us a sisterhood. But what is the story about? I had no idea, though in the years since the experience, I have picked it up a thousand times and had a look at it, always using it as an illustration of something that must wait until I understand it, until I know what it illustrates, each time after the telling, putting it away again, though always with great tenderness. I couldn’t pitch it to an editor in one word or one sentence. And so it waits—a jewel in need of a setting.

And then about 2 months ago I got a Facebook friend request from Gwen Olicker. And before I replied, I ran down the stairs screaming to my husband, “Guess who’s on my Facebook page? Gwen Schneidkraut!” (which is how I always think of her), to which he replied, “Eliza?! Not Eliza!” That should give you an idea of how many times I’ve told the story of our all-girl production. Gwen and I had not seen each other, or spoken, in perhaps 40 years. Life can do that.

And guess who still has her program, a mimeographed, two-page, illustrated treasure, kept all these years? Me. And up it went on Facebook. And on the story goes.

But what is this story about? The essential question, and one I deal with in my new book on writing memoir, a topic I just discussed two nights ago in the new session of my new memoir class, and one I’ve written about before here on TSP.

I waited all these years to know, and then, after being reconnected, I knew. It is about that gold standard, and where, and when, we get it. And after I understood that, I could have danced all night.

No related posts.

ICALL IT “OUR GREAT EXPERIMENT.” My big sister Margaret calls it “Why not, and can-do.” It’s the release today (on the occasion of my “29th” birthday) of my fourth book by none other than big sister-turned-publisher. I think that’s the most unusual gift Margaret ever got me. Both of us Roach sisters also think it’s a must-have for anyone doing any memoir-style writing–whether in print or on a blog–which is what I’ve been teaching to sold-out classes for 13 years. Margaret says my writing tips helped her finish her own memoir, due out next February, which is how she got the idea to publish them. Get the details (and the book). What a birthday this is turning out to be! [UPDATED 1/11: My self-published book sold to a major publisher and will be re-released in an expanded version in late spring. Meantime, it is unavailable; I'll let you know when orders can be taken for the even more exciting version.]

No related posts.

TRANSFORMING LOSS INTO LITERATURE has never been easy, but when three of your best friends do it, it’s worth writing about, as did Nancy Doyle Palmer in this extraordinary interview with Amy Dickinson, Lee Woodruff and Wendy Burden. Memoir writers to the max, two of the three have been on the bestseller list, and after I got an eyeful recently on a reader’s copy of Wendy Burden’s upcoming (Spring, 2010) memoir, I can predict from here that it’s destined for the list, as well. Make a cup of tea, get cozy, and read on. (Photo from Huffington Post.)

No related posts.

EVERYONE HAS A STORY. It’s true. And the evidence has never been more obvious. Have you seen the size of the scrapbook aisles at Michael’s or A.C. Moore? Have you read any blogs today, or watched as the number of printed personal essays continues to climb, even as the number of pages of our newspapers and magazines continues to decline? But are we writing it as well as we’d like, or are we just saying more? Would some how-to tips help, perhaps?

To ensure that you’re not just writing for height and distance, but actually saying something to your audience, is what separates those memoirs of interest (printed or digital) from those that just blah-blah blah all over the page. We know the difference when we read it, of course. But how to foster that ethic as we write?

To help, I am offering memoir tips, honed from my 11 years of teaching a memoir class to more than 500 students who have assuredly taught me more than I have taught them. The sisterly thing to do, of course, is share those things that have been shared with me.

One of the first things I learned teaching memoir is that most people are hung up on the fact that there are two sides to the story. Yes there are. At least.

If you live in a family you know that even the dog has his point of view. So, with that in mind: How do you get those competing sides under control? Try this tip. And now, how to get only your side on the page? This might help.

And with all those versions whirling around, whose story is it, by the way? Asked and answered right here.

Is your sense of privacy being sorely tested as you write your family’s tale? You’re not the first writer to consider this. Maybe this will help.

As I write this, I realize I’m really suggesting that there are guidelines for writing memoir, and that they include everything from what makes good memoir, to how to shape your characters, even if you know them well.

These guidelines include:

• Writing it all down. Keeping notes and how to organize them.

• Learning that just because something happened doesn’t make it interesting.

• Choosing topics that are right under our noses.

• Selecting details that enliven your pieces.

• Wrestling against that great desire to make it all up.

• And my very favorite device of all devices: making lists.

How is your memoir going, whether it’s an actual manuscript, or a particular series of blog posts, perhaps? Need some help? TSP is dedicated to helping our sisters and brothers get their story on the page, or screen. Keep coming back. There’s lots more where these came from.

Write on.

No related posts.

WHAT MAKES GOOD MEMOIR? I get this question all the time when I teach. And reading your comments on this makes me think it’s time to limn that line between what is merely some great scene versus a scene that is ready for the writing.

At some point in every memoir-writing class, I tell my students about a male architect I barely knew when he married a friend of mine. For their wedding he not only designed, but also sewed, his wife’s crushed white velvet, floor-length, cut-on-the bias dress, and made her white pillbox hat to match.

Consider that scene for a moment: Another bride, another groom, another musty old church filled with people in their 30s shooting looks at the dress, the hat, this Olympics of sewing on the part of the groom, the guests getting real wide-eyed at one another, raising their palms skyward and their shoulders to their ears. Here comes the bride, and is that groom in the tux and the slender Italian eyeglass frames straight or what?

Great scene. But what is it about? A fine collection of images, but what does it illustrate? Is it a tale about the way we live now?

Just because something happens doesn’t make it interesting. Don’t believe me? Tell someone your dreams. Unless you’re paying them to listen or haven’t slept with them yet (but might), chances are they’ll go to some lengths to avoid this download of your subconscious. Call my husband. He actually gets up and leaves the room if someone tries to tell him a dream. I think that’s why we’re married. So I don’t always have to be the rude one. He looks at this watch, nods, and actually says, “Oh, look at the time,” and leaves.

What is this about? The illustration–the crushed-velvet wedding dress, the tall groom, the whispers rocketing around the old stone church–needs a context, a frame. Ever notice how the perfect frame can bring out the color in your oil painting, your photo? Same with writing. The frame, the reason for the tale, is the same thing. And the question you now must tape to your wall is, “What is this about?”

What is the wedding story about? I have no idea–yet, at least–though in the 13 years since I delighted in witnessing it (and their happy marriage), I have picked it up a thousand times and had a look, each time putting it away again. It is gorgeous, it is there, and one of these days it will tuck into a tale I’m telling, but until it makes sense, in context, it’s just a spare part waiting to be sewed onto something else.

I’ve got a million of them, thank goodness. And so do you.

_______

For those of you on your first visit, or who haven’t read them before, my series On Writing Memoir is here.

No related posts.

A SISTER-FRIEND FROM OUR extended network, writer and yoga instructor Joely Johnson Mork, sent us the following piece back in December, during which time all of us were otherwise engaged making other kinds of lists. But I keep thinking of Joely’s offering, and wanted to share it. One week after a loss she was certain she would never write about, the death of her best friend, I asked Joely, a former student in my memoir-writing class, if she thought she could simply bring in a list of thoughts related to the event. She actually she wrote a series of three lists, about her last visit with Mary. I offer them here, in another busy time of year, to again help us take stock of what we value.

Joely’s List That Helps With Loss

What I Brought
1. A copy of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s “So Far.”
2. Three sticks of Buddhist incense that had been hand-delivered to me from Japan by a former lover.
3. A single change of clothes thrown without thinking into a canvas bag.
4. A week’s supply of Zoloft and Ativan.
5. My journal.
6. My marijuana pipe.
7. The turquoise necklace Mary brought back for me from Scottsdale.

What I Heard
1. Gale saying very solemnly, “Be prepared,” bowing her head to me as I walked toward the dining room where Mary was lying in her rented hospital bed.
2. The old-woman rasping of Mary’s breath.
3. Her husband’s surprised-sounding sobs.
4. The mechanical ocean sound of the oxygen tank.
5. Jeanne’s musical voice telling her daughter how honored she was to have been her mother and that it was OK to die now.
6. The moist crackle of fluid settling in Mary’s lungs.
7. The familiar, precious echo of Mary’s speaking voice breaking through her unconscious attempts to cough.
8. Thunder approaching with heavy boots and an empty sack slung over its back.
9. The release of rain on the leaves and earth outside the dining room windows.
10. The grinding of the hospital bed motor as we lowered the mattress after Mary had left us.

What I Said
1. On arriving, entering the kitchen to meet the crumpled faces of my friends standing there, “Oh, is she getting ready to spread her wings?”
2. “You have led an amazing life – you’ve done so much, we will all remember you.”
3. Whispered to Mary, when we were alone, “You are standing in front of a gate to a beautiful garden and the key is in your hand. Open the lock and let yourself walk inside. The sun is shining there – go, go, go.”

(For Mary “Mesa” Kittle, dear friend-sister.)

Of course, this reminds us of the gorgeous piece by TSP-new-sister Marilyn Pollack-Naron, and reminds us too, to read through the original comments sent to TSP and to Joely, as well as to ask you to send us your list, in the comments or by email to thesisterproject at gmail dot com.

No related posts.