Memoir is the longest work I’ve written so far. By the time I began writing my memoir, I’d only written one-page articles for my professional journal and college essays of seven to ten typed pages, double-spaced, printed and folded in half, not stapled or paper-clipped. I followed the classic university formula: One-third/one-third/one-third – tell them what you’re going to tell them, then tell them and, finally, tell them what you told them. Pretty effective for college life. Got me mostly As.
The zero draft of my memoir looked like a series of such essays cobbled together. My first critique group’s comments were along the lines of: “Show, don’t tell, LittleStar” and “That first chapter sounds like a Public Service Announcement.” What worked in my undergrad career wasn’t going to help me write a memoir. After I got over my shame attack (about three years), I took a second look at the zero draft. Yep, I’d moralized all over the place, blamed whoever I could, and seasoned it with lots of proclaiming and complaining.
As my first mentor, Sue William Silverman, said, “Good writing is rewriting”. It felt good to moralize, blame, proclaim and complain but I realized that, if the memoir stayed strictly a narrative, that’s all I would do. It was time to rewrite. Though I was not used to writing scenes, my steamy story about my journey to self-love would be more interesting if written mostly in scene (characters, dialogue and action) with narrative bridges. I could do it. After all, I was once a comic book fan. Talk about Characters! Dialogue! Action!
Thanks to my perfectionism, borne from insecurity, I rewrote most chapters eighteen times. Eighteen means life and I was bringing this baby to life. During the drafting of the zero to first, I worried about transitions between chapters; tossed out brilliant phrases that didn’t serve the narrative; killed off chapters that didn’t move the story forward or belonged in another memoir; paid deeper attention to the “Unh” feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me when a sentence or scene wasn’t working and that “Yeah!” feeling when the rhythm was just right, which meant the truth had somehow burst through. I also stopped worshipping my marvelous critiquers. Instead of employing every one of their suggestions, I began to question whether their remarks were relevant to my vision.
A variety of structural problems came to my attention. For example, I never disclosed that my father revealed a family secret to my brother or that my brother told me. Was the information crucial to my choices as a character in the memoir? Did I need to share the disclosure to drive the narrative forward? If I wanted to put the information in, how would I do that? Create a scene or chapter in which my brother transmits the information or will a line of dialogue do?
It has been more useful for me to allow the questions to frame themselves and sit with the confusion, rather than go for immediate gratification when I really don’t know the answer.
As to story structure and what to do: In the smoky residue of Rewrite Alley, I discovered that, in some instances, I could fix story gaps with a simple paragraph or one line of dialogue. In other instances, I had to write a whole chapter to include important material. How do I know when to do what? When does the brush begin to move the hand instead of the hand moving the brush? There is no formula. Once the question arises, if I am willing to wait, the answer usually arrives.
by: Little Star