Digging Deeper: Finding the Why in Memoir
A courtyard in El Alcázar, a historic royal palace in Seville, Spain.
Years ago, this lush courtyard of sunken gardens and orange trees was concealed by flat pavement. Rehabilitative construction accidentally unearthed the gardens and ornately decorated walls, which had been long buried and forgotten.
Picture copyright: Adam Groves, Ultreya Editorial
Historical information source: Walking tour by Concepción Delgado of Sevilla Walking Tours
"The narrator is involved not in confession but in this kind of self-investigation…. Here, it is self-implication that is required. To see one's own part in the situation—that is, one's frightened or cowardly or self-deceived part—is to create the dynamic."
"[In memoir, readers] are in the presence … of a mind puzzling its way out of its own shadows—moving from unearned certainty to thoughtful reconsideration to clarified self-knowledge."
"No, no. What is [the story] about?"
–Vivian Gornick, The Story and the Substance
This is the second in a series of posts inspired by Gornick's book, which I review here. We're continuing last week's discussion of the question "What is it about?"
A heads-up: I said last time that we'd look at how to weed out digressions, but
as I was writing this series I realized there was a more fundamental matter to discuss: how one identifies the core subject matter of the story.
We'll start weeding next week.
Also before we begin, I want to note that I have read and helped to edit many personal narratives, some memoir and some not, and I have found in each one much to cherish. There are a wide variety of purposes and styles when it comes to storytelling, each worth celebrating when a form is embraced and well-used. The discussion which follows focuses narrowly on what works well for memoir. It is not an indictment of other types of personal writing and certainly not of the storytellers.
Second, I'll repeat what anyone within shouting distance of the arts has heard a million times: rules are made to be broken. But it serves us well to know the rules first, because we ought to be able to answer intelligently why and whether breaking them truly serves our writing.
Finally, we're talking about the editing phase, which assumes that the first few drafts are out of the way. If you are reading this and you are still in the midst of a first (or second, or third) draft, consider skipping this post. The questions we're going to explore may undermine the raw creativity you need to indulge in the early stages.
Okay, caveats are out of the way. To repeat today's question: "What is this story really about?" Or if you prefer, "Why am I writing this?"
After the dust has settled from the first couple of passes at writing a story, someone who wishes to communicate well needs to reflect carefully on this matter. One might think one already knows the answer, but the truth can take time to discover—and to accept.
If one is courageous, honest, and persistent, getting down to the real heart of the story can make the writing more rewarding for writer and readers alike. But if one settles for superficial answers, especially when one intends to share one's truth with the world, a diminished experience often results.
Earlier this year, I read a memoir of someone's journey out of drug and alcohol addiction. In the end, the person successfully emerged from dependence on those substances. In terms of empathy and human solidarity, I rejoiced with the writer that they got out from under those destructive addictions.
Still, it felt like something was missing. When I finished the book, I had a strong sense that I had been told a story by an author who was also telling themselves a story. There was some digging in—how could there not be in a tale of addiction?—but the narrator's journey inward seemed to stop short of real catharsis.
Since we are dealing with sensitive, intimate stuff—and we usually are when it comes to memoir—I want to assure you—and remind myself—that editing is not about judging the writer. It is not my place to dissect and diagnose a human soul.
Instead, I will give my informed (and hopefully diplomatic) insights on the narrative itself. I will analyze the stuff of the story, hopefully in an empowering way, because that is my passion and my business: to equip those who wish for their words to resonate with relatable insights and questions; to help authors to challenge what is on their page and raise it to a higher level of quality and human connection; even, hopefully, to help writers come to know themselves better in the process.
I'm pretending the author of the memoir that I read is my client, but the tips which follow (the first derives from Gornick; the other two come from my own experience) are for you and anyone you know who wants to reflect more deeply upon their writing.
Now let's look at three ways a writer can dig into the Why, and thereby elevate both their craft and their power to connect through words.
Tip 1 for identifying the true what/why in memoir: Put distance between you as the writer and you as the character.
I suspect that all writers get overly-protective about their characters now and then. This can be an especial temptation when the character is you.
Early in her book, Gornick goes at length into the value and necessity of distinguishing the self as author and the self as character. She states the idea a bit arcanely, but in effect she explains that a writer of memoir needs to detach from the "self" in the book in order to properly investigate and interrogate that "self" (see pp. 6-9). Something else which Gornick explored is that distance for the sake of craft also leads to deeper real-life insights.
My take on her observations is that memoir is a journey of being naked to the self and to the world, but also one of being armored up—with both compassion and dispassion—in order to muscle through the prickly briars of self-exposure.
To underline this point I'll borrow from another one of my favorite writers on writing, Anne Lamott. In Bird by Bird, in her chapter on plot, she says, "Characters should not…serve as pawns for some plot you've dreamed up…. Let what they say or do reveal who they are" (p. 54). It takes guts and patience for a writer to give their characters the freedom to reveal to the writer the truth about themselves. This is all the more true when the writer is the main character.
In the memoir we’re using as an example, I cannot point to precise examples since this tip is about frame of mind rather than content, but I think there is enough circumstantial evidence for me to suspect that the author did not achieve sufficient distance from his subject matter.
At least, this is one explanation for why the narrative feels so carefully-controlled, even as it is a tale of bottoming out and climbing back out of addiction: the author only felt comfortable confessing what he wanted to confess and learning what he wanted to learn. His character—his self-as-protagonist—was not distant enough or free enough from the author to show the actual person what he needed to see. The result was a superficial narrative of change in which all the parts the author seemed to like best about himself did not change; those were carefully preserved and put on display. If I am correct, I believe the writer—and his readers—were cheated out of a richer experience.
A bit of emotional and intellectual distance can paradoxically cultivate greater intimacy with the self and with readers. This distance helps engender humility, deeper insight, more cathartic honesty, and a more insightful and relatable story for everyone involved.
Tip 2 for identifying the true what/why in memoir: List the obvious subject matter, then look for patterns.
Once a full draft is in hand and as revision begins, it can help to review and jot down what one notices about people, places, things, and ideas. Who keeps coming up? What places? What sorts of events? What emotions? What conclusions? And so on. Then ask: Do any of these fall into categories? Relate to one another in some persistent way? Does any of it point to something deeper?
While I read our example book, I noticed several trends that lurked just outside of the spotlight. Among these patterns:
With each new pursuit or job, the narrator relished in describing to readers his mastery of the field and his great success therein.
Eventually something about this situation would go south, or they would abandon it, and they would rush on to the next thing to go all-in on that, using the same tactics as before.
Throughout his addiction and recovery, the author had access to an amazing network of resources, including a generous family and lots of money.
Observing these trends, I might have asked the author whether he noticed that his main character (again, distinct from the writer even while being the writer) came across as heroic even in the midst of addiction. Perhaps he could have explored the interplay of self-image, self-esteem, and addiction. I might also have pointed out the air of compulsiveness around the narrator. Were the career shifts strictly circumstantial or did the writer have a habit of chasing the latest, exciting project? What deeper cause might an investigation of this reveal (which might also better explain the addictions)? Finally, I might have suggested that the author explore more deeply how he benefited from (or was harmed by?) the resources which helped him but may have also enabled him.
The invitation and challenge to any writer when identifying patterns is to reflect. One gets to review one's life as it looks on paper in order to identify themes: a spiritual or philosophical question which has kept one up nights for years; or an aspect of personal evolution which does not yet make sense (even as the writer writes about it); or a social or interpersonal phenomenon which has had repeated, intimate bearing on the course of one's life.
Warning: one ought to be wary of hobbyhorses and soapboxes, except insofar as they carve a path inward. The ways a neighbor or society or the world is to blame might be part of a story, but the soul of memoir is self-examination. Thus one ought to look for patterns that signpost something integral and transformative about one's self-understanding in the face of lived experience: What unique thing about their experiences and life lessons insists upon itself? What makes this unique something relatable to others? What deeper gravity draws the main character—and will eventually draw readers—down the road of the writer's life and into their insides?
A writer who searches for deeper patterns in what’s on the page in order to get at the true Why stands to reap great rewards by getting curious about their own storytelling impulses. It's a chance to learn about oneself while telling about—telling on—oneself. This also pays off in terms of increasing one’s odds of connecting with readers.
Tip 3 for identifying the true what/why in memoir: Take note of what is missing, then journal about why.
You will notice that we already did a bit of this when identifying patterns. Tips 2 and 3 are kind of a one-two punch.
With the recovery memoir, it became irresistible to wonder what lay beneath the behaviors and circumstances which surrounded the addictions. If there were already obvious unaddressed patterns, what was missing altogether from the story?
Most people in the narrator’s life eagerly fell in love with his vision, but some did not. What might have been revealed by spending more time with the memories of those the writer did not get along with? Everything the writer touched in the story turned to gold (even if it later became dust). Did the author ever fail, and how would these stories affect the memoir and the insights it delivered? Was the writer really unfailingly brilliant and charismatic? If yes, was there ever a downside to this (lost opportunities to grow; accidental exploitation of others)? If not, what were his relationships like when he was not on his A-game? The story was rich with untapped opportunities for deeper reflection about the author's life circumstances; his assumptions; his temperament and tendencies and patterns of engaging the world.
I have some familiarity with recovery systems. Among the truths that I have seen come up often:
An addiction is a symptom of a larger disease. In fact, to the dysfunctional mind, the addiction is medicine to treat the disease.
The bad medicine must be removed, but this is only the first step in the healing process. Bringing an addictive behavior under control lays bare the assorted survival mechanisms and dysfunctions which lie below. Those deeper problems are usually the really crucial matters to be addressed.
If someone stops their work at bringing an addiction under control, this often leads to the subtler state of disease called being a dry drunk.
What was missing from our case study were these secondary truths and phases of the recovery journey. Indeed, the author seemed to draw a thick line in the sand across which he would not continue with readers and with himself…at least on the page.
Whether or not my assessment is accurate in this particular case, it is a handy illustration that when a memoirist takes time to look for what they left out—consciously or not—they can discover a cornucopia of untasted inspiration. And this can become an amazing opportunity to explore really vibrant territory of growth and connection with readers and self.
To quote Lamott once more, "Find out what each character cares most about in the world because then you will have discovered what's at stake" (p. 55). What we care about is often just as evident in what we avoid as in what we pursue. In fact, one might argue that what we care most about is more evident in what we hide from.
By going beyond what made it to the page to examine what did not make it, a writer comes closer to that elusive quarry: the real, relatable, memorable Why.
Gornick presents to memoirists a warning, challenge, and invitation all at once. She observes, "The unsurrogated narrator [i.e., the written self in the hands of a carefully-distanced writer self] has the monumental task of transforming low-level self-interest into the kind of detached empathy required of a piece of writing to be of value to the disinterested reader" (p. 7).
The three tips above, give writers a place to start on this difficult and worthwhile task of rooting out the What and Why of their memoir. They can help eliminate red herrings and hone in on the real beating heart they are chasing. With greater clarity, an author is empowered to blaze the true path of the memoir and build the sturdiest bridge of connection with readers. (And to repeat an implication I cannot stress enough for at least the third time, these exercises also hold the potential of building a better relationship with oneself.)
By contrast, if a writer neglects to critically examine their draft (if not with these tools, then with some set of incisive questions), they risk coming across as lacking in self-awareness. Many readers will not be fooled; they will lose faith and maybe even resent the writer, interpreting the lack of critical insight as an attempt to deceive them.
Finally, remember that this level of radical honesty with oneself can be hard to desire much less achieve, especially when it comes to parts of the self that are in hiding. Solo efforts to gain distance and perspective are valuable, but often there is a ceiling on self-insight. One is too close to see it all…perhaps too close to see what matters most. With all of these tips, after the writer has done some work on their own, it is invaluable to seek the help of beta readers and an editor. These folks serve a writer as their compassionate blind spot detection team.
Self-discovery is one of the greatest gifts which memoir grants a writer. Authentic communication can be unfathomably rewarding when one faces the challenge of really being honest. When one ask themselves and their story, "What is this really about?" and "Why am I writing this?" they take real steps toward making peace with who they are, growing into who they are meant to be, and stepping onto the road to meet others in more integrated, loving, resonant ways.
Next week we'll discuss how to weed out rabbit trails. See you then!
Sources:
Gornick, Vivian. The Situation and the Story. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.
Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird. Anchor Books, 1995.