Personal Truth vs. Factual Truth

Rereading old stories often sparks new insights. Ditto with old blog posts. En route to finding an old post about something else, I found “My Brain on Story.” That post is based on an incident where a witness to a mock crime testified that what turned out to be a plastic water pistol was the gun that fired the shot she heard.  Rereading the post led me to reconsider the controversy about Truth I reported there. My son-in-law’s adamant position was that although the perception that a water pistol was a bullet-firing weapon was real, it was not true. I disagreed, clinging to my assertion that the perception was true.

Today a flash of insight penetrated my skull. Sally’s perception of an actual gun and speeding bullets was personal truth  or perceived truth. The documentable fact that the gun was a water pistol was factual truth. While not every instance of questionable truth has documentable evidence to prove it “right or wrong,” in this situation , the matter can be settled. I still maintain that each form of truth is equally valid, but I’ll concede they are different.

Bottom line, in my opinion, it still does not matter. We’re still talking about terminology and the fact that perceived or personal truth plays a powerful role in our lives.

Sally’s personal truth that a pistol was aimed at her and that shots were fired is still as true today as the day it happened in 1984. I did not stay in contact with Sally, but I can say with absolute certainty that she remembers that personal truth, how real it was, and how stunned she was to hold the water pistol. I’m willing to wager that her life turned a corner that day.

The timing of this discovery is amazing. Life has intervened, and that new volume of advice for writing your lifestory is not finished, though I’m deeply engrossed in it again. I believe it’s no coincidence that I’m currently working on the chapter on memory and truth.

This flash of insight holds two jewels for that chapter:

1. Truth comes in at least two versions, maybe more. Each or all are equally valid, just different.

2. Insight and understanding evolve. I’ve written about this before. Lessons sink in and begin to grow when their seed sprouts, and some seeds can take a long to sprout.

My life is full of slow-cooker lessons and evolving understanding. What are some things you’ve been slow to learn?

It’s All About STORY

I was stunned when conversation at my book club drifted into comments on memoir in general. I’d just mentioned that I’d been appalled at the proliferation of typos and other errors in a memoir I recently read that was, sure enough, self-published.  “I cringe when I read something like that because it casts all self-publishers in a bad light.” But even so, I’d been mesmerized by the story and seconded the recommendation of a previous reader.

I could never have anticipated the ensuing, spontaneous discussion. How I wish I’d had my phone’s recorder running. I did scribble a few notes, summarized below:

“I’m more forgiving about sloppy writing and errors in memoir … I’m more interested in hearing their story than how they tell it.”

“I can overlook a lot of structural stuff because the story is what counts.”

“Memoir is about real people, things that actually happened. Most of them are not professional writers and I don’t expect them to sound like one.”

“Flaws make memoir credible. If it’s too polished, I wonder how much truth got scrubbed out by editors.”

“You can’t critique a memoir because you haven’t walked in that person’s shoes. I’m just fascinated by other people’s stories.”

Wow! I recognized an opportunity to listen and learn rather than steering the discussion. I kept my astonished thoughts to myself to avoid biasing things.

Members of this group are voracious and discerning readers. Every Tuesday afternoon 12 – 20 women (men are welcome, but never attend) meet at the library. A high number have advanced degrees. Several are retired teachers or professors. A few of us also write. But most of all we read, widely and constantly. We each read whatever appeals to us and report back to the group, some in more detail than others. At least half the gals at any given meeting report on more than one book. Rarely does anyone pass.  A significant percentage of the reports include some form of the observation, “It didn’t work for me, but other people may like it.”

In general we collectively hold books to high standards, so, I have full respect and regard for their thoughts about memoir. I cannot imagine a better qualified focus group to address this issue, especially since it arose spontaneously. They don’t write, teach or promote memoir, so they have no reason to be anything but frank.

Perhaps today’s comments ring even more true, because in thinking back, I recall a couple of memoirs that got a thumbs down after comments like “It was too dry and didn’t have much to say.” Celebrity memoirs full of false humility that fails to mask self-promotion also get blasted. The story has to ring true.

Does this mean we should forget about editors and publish first drafts? Of course not! I take it to primarily mean that we should make sure our heart and soul stays in our story and that it retains our unique voice. We still need beta readers to find holes, inconsistencies, and parts that don’t make sense or ring true. And I don’t think these gals will mark you down for a tightly written manuscript with a compelling plot and story arc, strong tension and character development, rich scenes, and no typos. All those fiction devices work, but only if the story rings true.

The bottom line in their remarks is STORY. It’s all about the STORY. Those dry, flat memoirs that got ripped lacked STORY. Do what you need to do to make your story clear, focused and active, and don’t hide it under too much gloss and device. But take heart that if you do slip up a bit, or can’t afford thousands of dollars for a top-notch editor, or you’re just writing for family. Don’t despair. Write it true, write it real, and write from your passion and heart.

In Defense of Surface Writing

In her new book, The Art of Memoir, author Mary Karr repeatedly urges readers to dig deep to discover their true story. As a disclaimer, I’m not digging back into the volume to discuss it. This post is based on what I perceived, understood, and remember, not her specific words. My perception is my reality, my truth. If that varies from literal words in the book, that’s how memory works, and that’s part of my point.

Karr, along with countless others, myself included, have continually made the point that as you begin to edit and refine your initial story and reflect about what really did happen, how else you might look at the past, how else might you tell it, your story changes. In fact, you reconstruct history. Some give the impression that this reconstruction conveys our true essence and is truer than our initial understanding or viewpoint, no matter how long we held it.

As I read Karr’s thoughts on this reconstruction, I was overwhelmed with the certainty that these “deeper truths” are no truer than the ones we’ve lived with, perhaps for decades. Our lives may be richer for reaching them, but they NOT MORE TRUE.

What you remember on the surface is your story, the story that made you who you are. You may derive enormous personal benefit and change your life by digging, archeologist-style, into your past, but that does not diminish the personal validity of your original insights and belief, your original truth.

Early drafts of your story convey a sense of who you have been. When you begin crafting and editing that story, it remains true, but continues to develop. You continue to develop and grow. Deep reflection and insight can shape and reflect who you become. New information can change how we view the past, but it can’t change how we thought and felt before we turned that corner. We are, after all, works in progress, continually evolving as we travel life’s path, and stories change even for those who never write.

Memories do tend to morph over time. Read an old journal if you need examples. Just keep in mind that their initial form is as true and valid as whatever form they eventually take.

I bring this up in the hope that nobody will be deterred from writing or sharing stories for fear they have not dug deeply enough or their story may not be true enough on the first or second draft to be deemed “worthy” of writing or being read. I hope nobody will be deterred from writing at least a few stories from the certainty they’ll never have the time, skill or motivation to polish it to perfection.

Enough of that Inner Critic talk! All stories are worthy of writing and sharing. Furthermore, no matter how well-developed and polished, or how loudly your supporters cheer, not all will appeal to a million people. So whatever your level of skill, motivation and resources, don’t hesitate to write yours.

Do you find this concept startling, that truth can be defined on multiple levels? Do you agree? What are your thoughts and experiences? I welcome and encourage comments on all facets of this topic. Please join the discussion.

What Is TRUTH?

Nine years ago as I pulled together the material that became The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing, I thought I knew the answer to that question, what is truth: It's what really happened, or what you really think. It's basic honesty, plain and simple. Everybody knows that, right?

That's a good starting point, but as I've learned since then, that's both incomplete and misleading. Some of my increased understanding is old news, things I knew that had not integrated into my cluster of life writing neurons. Meanwhile, advances in the study of memory continue to deepen understanding. These discoveries have profound  relevance for life writers. Here's a list of a few evolving insights worth sharing:

Memory is fallible. Contrary to what you probably heard in psychology class, self-help seminars, and various other places, you do not remember every minute detail of every sensation that ever entered your brain. Recent evidence shows that incoming data is filtered, scrubbed and consolidated. Irrelevant material is unlikely to be retained. Furthermore, our brains often mistake vivid mental images for fact, embedding them as memory.

Memory morphs. Research shows that each time you recall an event or thought, current circumstances and thought become enmeshed in the memory, and the initial memory may become buried in debris over time. Compare this to your story files on disk. You may save your initial draft. Then you edit and save again. You may repeat that process twenty times, perhaps changing only a word or two each time you read. Five years later, if you had a copy of that original draft, you may not recognize it as the same story. But you didn't save the original, so there's now way to know.

Perception is personal and situational. In 1978 I grew sick of my long, hippie hair. I was enrolled in an off-campus graduate program at Central Washington U at the time, and made the hundred mile drive to the Ellensburg campus every couple of weeks. One day I left early and stopped at a hair salon before a lunch date with my mentor. Although I felt foxy as heck with my sleek new bob, I could barely see beyond a new fringe of bangs invading my view. My next stop was the library. When I stepped up to the checkout desk, I heard a man say, "Oh, my GOD!" A bomb exploded in my self-absorbed brain. Could my hair be that bad? I swung around and saw him gaping at a document.

Truth is relative. This perspective is based on the one above. In my essay, Mayhem at Camp RYLA, I cite the example of a young woman who worked as a bank teller and was held up at gunpoint a few months earlier. Shots were fired, though not at her. During a simulated crime at Camp RYLA, she saw an object held at arms' length, pointed in her direction. Not only did she tearfully swear under oath at the mock trial that a gun had been pointed at her, but that she'd heard a shot. That belief was so strong and true for her that she went into near meltdown at the revelation the "gun" had been a plastic water pistol.

Truth is situational and sometimes inconsistent. Victims of abuse often testify to this. "I loved him," they claim, years after they got brave enough to leave. "I really loved him. And I hated him when he beat me. Sometimes I wished he was dead." Those feelings, those truths, can exist side-by-side for decades.

So, you see, although I don't deny the existence of universal truths like the power of love, story truth is fuzzy, fleeting and personal.Write your story the way you see it, the way it's real and true to you. If you find truth changing as you write, consider yourself blessed.

Write now: Make a list of beliefs about what you hold true. Jot down a few examples of each. Then ask yourself Byron Katie's question, "Is this really, really true?" and "How do I know it's true?" You may be surprised by what you learn.

Mini-Memoir – Great Things Come in Small Packages

In a post on the U.S. edition of the British Guardian website, journalist Anna Baddeley cites several mini-memoirs published by celebrity authors. In conclusion she opines that mini-memoir is “An exciting trend in journalism that one hopes will soon take off over here.” I hope so too, as a reader (what's not to like about a book you can finish in three hours or less), as a writer (what's not to like about a book you can finish in two or three months rather than years?), and as a teacher (more of my students can publish!).

So what is a mini-memoir? Basically, mini-memoir is the non-fiction equivalent of a novella. To date, this short form has not received much attention, though you can find a few in Amazon if you search on that term. One of the titles that pops up on this search is Adventures of a Chilehead: A Mini-Memoir with Recipes, by Yours Truly. The term seems to be used in two ways. Some use it to recount memories limited to a tightly focused topic. Some overlap the definition of mini-memoir with flash memoir, the topic of my most recent post.

I couldn't recall hearing the term before when I popped it onto the cover of Adventures of a Chilehead. As far as I knew, I was coining a phrase, one that seemed apt for a concise collection of short stories crafted around a unifying theme.

Here's how the book evolved: A dozen years ago I wrote two stories featuring adventures I’ve had eating hot chile. About four years later I wrote a third, "Great Balls of Fire," within days of the featured event, almost before my mouth quit burning. I considered that story to be my declaration of independence from stomach-scarring scoville levels.  For eight years I referred to these three stories as my "Chilehead Trilogy." I wanted to do more with them, to turn them into what I refer to in The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing as a "story album" (otherwise known as an anthology).

Last year the light dawned. I could publish that trilogy as a Kindle book, just for the heckuvit. Just for fun. When I began working toward that end, I thought of more stories. Three stories evolved into ten chapters, plus the section of recipes. What began as a simple Kindle compilation expanded enough to work as a print version.

Weaving the eight stories into a cohesive whole, ensuring adequate background without repetition was a challenge, Drafting the introduction and concluding chapters even more so. But as typically happens with memoir, while massaging those stories and reflections, my love for this pungent fruit grew even deeper, along with my understanding of the way it grounds and roots me in the land I hold dear after  fifty-some years away.

Aside from the subject matter and recipes, this book differs from full-length memoir in an important respect. It's focused more sharply. It's about chile and me. Nothing more, nothing less. I mention relatives and relationships, but they stay in the background. I mention place, but only in passing. Yet within that strict focus, you can see changes in my thinking. Learning and growth did happen. I wrote as much as I have to say about chile, and let it go at that rather than forcing the issue and straying from truth, chasing elusive word count.

Just as tiny memory fragments power flash memoir, themed memory clusters illuminate mini-memoir, a great hit with busy readers. With Kindle and maybe CreateSpace, you can transform stacks of loose stories into themed mini-memoir for friends and family — and the rest of the world if you wish.

Write now: pull together an assortment of related stories. Look for the common thread linking them together. Find a logical order, reduce repetition and add elements to showcase that thread. Share with friends for feedback, add a cover and the requisite promo material and you're good to go to Amazon.

Which Memory is Real?

Everyone knows how memory dims and darkens with time. Yesterday I began writing about a memory from the summer after first grade when I felt “outside the circle.” I'd written  about this incident before, but decided to begin fresh. After five paragraphs I could see no further benefit in continuing the rewrite and tracked down a version from five years ago, intending to graft in some of that material.

When I read the earlier story, my jaw dropped. The theme was the same, the other main character was the same, but circumstances were quite different. Yesterday's  story begins as I approach a cluster of kids that included Carol (the girl across the street) and half a dozen neighborhood boys. In the earlier version, Carol was jumping rope alone in front of her house.

Which is real? Has my memory changed that much in five years? Which version should I use?

As I closely examine the versions, slight differences begin to emerge. In the jump rope version, Carol does invite me to play, in an off-handed way. I do mention that Tom, the boy our age who lives in the other end of her duplex, won’t play with me. In yesterday's memory and story, I arrive as Tom finishes telling a dirty joke. I hear only the ensuing laughter. An older boy tells me I shouldn’t have been listening (I wasn’t!), and all the boys run off, leaving me to play with Carol.

In both cases I felt awkward and uncertain. Both my mother and I had only our younger sisters to play with before we began school, and we both lacked social savvy. I was desperate to learn. The jump rope story works well to emphasize that awkwardness. The second story works better for emphasizing my discomfort with groups, my feeling of being on the fraying fringe of things.

I’ve concluded that two memories are involved and that both memories are real – as real as any memory can be. As I further refine my theme, I believe the choice of which story to use will become apparent. Or I may use both in a longer version.

The important point for now is that both memories are tattered and faded, dark fragments of the moment. The “actual facts” of what “really” happened are only faintly discernible. The “truth” of the encounters lies in emotional memory.  That’s where the story is. Knowing the specific date, time of day, color of Carol’s hair, or names of the boys serves no purpose. I don’t care about those myself!

I shall include only details directly relevant to the story such as:

• The comforting feel of summer sun on my shoulders and espresso-brown hair.
• The view from my vantage point in front of my house, eighteen stair steps above the street and two hundred feet away.
• Feeling sad, alone and "different" as I watched.
• Feeling confused and clueless about how to join Carol or the group.
• Feeling awed by the beautifully decorated bedroom she had to herself.

Details like this form the reality of memories. My challenge is to develop brightly lit scenes that crisply convey this sense of loneliness and longing — the core truth of both memories and countless later incidents.

Write now: Without looking back, rewrite an emotional memory you wrote about at least a year ago (preferably much longer) in a story or journal. Don't look back before you write, but compare versions when you're done. Make note of differences and dig for those golden key emotions underlying the memory. Follow their trail through the years.

Photo credit: Dan Sakamoto

Not Just for Tweens

If a random person had handed me a copy of Shannon Hale’s novel, Ever After High: The Story Book of Legends, I might have flipped through the pages and admired the stunning design, skimmed a page or two and handed it back unread. I would not have known what I was missing.

Fortunately for me, the person who handed me the book was Sarah, the granddaughter mentioned in the two previous posts. This book moved into her life, luring her away into remote corners of the house and keeping her up half the night.

When Sarah finished reading the book, she began talking about it in fascinating depth and detail. She mentioned that the characters were the children of fairy tale people like Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Prince Charming, and a long list of others. These charmed children all attended Ever After High the boarding school for all descendants of legendary characters. In a keystone event, second year students ceremonially claimed their legacy and pledged to relive their ancestral stories to keep those stories alive for the world. Should they refuse, the story and all characters in it would go POOF!

Sarah was intrigued by the fact that Raven Queen, the daughter of the Evil Queen (who poisoned Snow White), didn’t want to relive her mother’s life. She explained that the book was about Raven’s adventures as she made up her mind whether to sign the pledge. She loaned me the 300 page book to read, but reclaimed it when I was only 50 pages in so she could read it again herself. I was so intrigued that I downloaded the Kindle version.

I quickly discovered that this book is masterfully crafted, multilayered and rich, and definitely not just for kids. Raven’s struggles with self and with others are heroic, her insights profound. The issues she struggles with – personal identity, self-determination, and more – are epic and universal. Every page sizzles with action.

The part that gave me goose bumps was the insight about Story and its power to shape lives. Raven helped all the other characters, both royal and common (yes, they did have discrimination issues there), see that they are the masters of their own stories, something precious few adults in today’s world realize. They are not bound by the past – they can write new versions. They are free to write their own “Happily ever after” stories with an entirely new cast of characters if they wish. In fact, they write stories forward as well as recording the past.

That message fits perfectly with the noblest mission of memoir: process the past, pick your own path, and write a bright future.

There’s so much more to be said about this book, about finding and following Truth, about Story and differences, and many more things, but I’ll leave it to you to read and discover as you wish. I’m grateful this astute young lass convinced me to read it.

I was thrilled that Sarah was eager to discuss the book and already seemed to understand that she doesn’t have to live like anyone else, that she can invent her own life. She was excited that the book put this hunch into words and brought it to life for her. She has many years to map out and edit her “blueprint” story, and a lot more years to revise as she goes.

This book may shape her life in some small way. Isn’t that what we all hope for, that a book, a story, even a few words we write may shape someone’s life? That can happen, but only if we write!

Write now: take a cue from Ever After High. Spend some time considering how closely you are bound to the story lived by one of your parents or other relatives. Write a few stories about the similarities between you. Explore aspects of your story you’d like to change, then write a new story with the direction you prefer. Share that story if you like, or tuck it away and let it work its magic, leading you along the path you wrote of.

What Is Truth?

Eight years ago as I pulled together the material that became The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing, I thought I knew the answer to that question: It's what really happened, or what you really think. It's basic honesty, plain and simple. Everybody knows that, right?

That's a good starting point, but based on what I’ve learned and discovered since then, that definition is incomplete and misleading. Some of my increased understanding is old news, things I knew that had not yet integrated into my life writing neuron cluster. Meanwhile, advances in the field of neuroscience continue to deepen understanding of how memory works. These discoveries have profound  relevance for life writers. Here's a list of a few insights worth sharing:

Memory is fallible. Contrary to what you probably heard in psychology class, self-help seminars, and various other places, your subconscious is not packed with every minute detail of every sensation that ever entered your brain. Recent evidence shows that incoming data is filtered, scrubbed, compacted and consolidated. Unless it significantly relates one way or another to something you already know, most new material is filtered out.

Another stumbling block is that our brains often mistake vivid mental images for fact, embedding them as memory. This phenomenon explains many “suppressed” memories that may be planted by certain forms of questioning. Are those “true” memories? Debate rages on.

Memory morphs. Research shows that each time you recall an event or thought, current circumstances and thought become enmeshed in the memory, which may become buried in debris over time.

Perception is personal. If you have not yet done so, read my essay, Mayhem at Camp Ryla for a first person account of sensational and documented differences in personal perception as a simulated crime was committed. Elizabeth Loftus and other researchers have repeatedly verified my ad hoc observations.

Truth is relative. As you take different points of view, you see truth in different lights. What was true without a doubt to you as a child may look quite different after fifty years of life experience. What seems true to a child is something entirely different to a parent. Experts often disagree on the truth of such fundamentals as the meaning of scripture.

Truth is situational. You may already have noticed how you select aspects of thought depending on who you are talking to. Conversation and writing are both shaped by our perceptions of the people we address. Time dictates filtering. Even if we had all the time in the world, shaping our message for best understanding is also important.

So, again, what is truth? Amazon is full of books on this topic. Here’s my current take. Today my best answer is that truth is found at the core of my being. It’s as ephemeral as an atom, lacking substance and location, but forming the essence of being. I recognize truth as a sensation of rightness or “inner knowingness” that washes over me as my beliefs, values, memories and experience converge in a single bright spot.

Truth does not trump fear, nor does speaking or writing it promise a smooth path. Speaking, writing and living in conformance with truth as you believe and understand it does lead to a sense of integrity and personal peace.

Story that springs from the well of truth within you shines the most brightly. You don’t need to blurt it out. You can veil it, scatter it, turn it upside down. But if it isn’t there, your story will ring hollow.

Writing, especially (but not only) journaling, may be the most powerful way to arrive at your truth. William Faulkner is credited with first saying,  “I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written about it.”  The longer you work on a story, the more you dig for detail, the more deeply you know the truth of that story, and the truth of yourself.

Write now: even if you’ve done this before, start fresh and write about a cornerstone memory, ideally one with volatile emotional content. As you write, as yourself the question, “Is this  really true?” Keep writing until the answer to that question is “YES!” Then write the true story.

Is Memoir a Betrayal?

“Writers are always selling somebody out,” wrote Joan Didion at the beginning of her first essay collection, 1968’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

This sinister quote was included in Boris Katcha’s feature article on the New York Magazine site discussing Didion’s brutally personal new memoir, Blue Nights. Katcha considers Didion’s words “a statement of mercenary purpose in the guise of a confession: not a preemptive apologia but an expression of grandiose, even nihilistic ambition.”

How might this apply to “ordinary people” writing lifestory and memoir? How many memoir writers have grandiose or nihilistic ambitions? My previous post, “Above All, Cause No Harm,” emphasizes that shadows give depth to a character, and that speaking our truth may be inconvenient or painful for others. So, yes, in a sense, even without Didion’s mindset, memoir can be seen by some as a betrayal, in at least a small way.

Most thinking people will agree that this is a matter of degree. Mentioning that Aunt Agatha was portly won’t raise nearly as many eyebrows as sharing the news that Uncle Elmer groped children, specifically you.

So here’s the ethical dilemma. Assuming it is true that Uncle Elmer groped children, even if “only” you, most would consider that Uncle Elmer betrayed family trust, and yours  most of all. Perhaps by opening this wound to light and air you will help yourself and an entire family heal and move on. Perhaps you will inspire others to speak out and help rid society of this evil, or at least give future generations the strength and awareness to teach children to speak up so we can deal with it quickly before permanent damage is done.

In this case the question may be, if Uncle Elmer betrayed trust in general and yours in particular, is disclosing this fact in a published memoir betraying Uncle Elmer? Betraying the family? I leave that for you to decide. There is  no right answer.

Are hurt feelings a betrayal? Who owns reactions? Does Aunt Agatha ever look in the mirror? Does she think nobody knows she is the elephant is in the room? Is she truly unaware that people whisper and snicker behind her back? If you know Aunt Aggie’s feelings will be hurt, perhaps you don’t need to mention her size and eating habits, at least not so bluntly. Perhaps she’s eating herself into an early grave and you can wait her out. If it is an important story element, you’ll have a decision to make.

On balance, published memoirs do tend to include “juicy” material, perhaps because most people who feel motivated to take on a writing project of that scope generally have some sort of traumatic event or series of events to report, in the belief that doing so will have benefit for others. But even these thorny stories have rose petals strewn among them.

Decisions about what to include and what to leave in the closet are always an individual decision. Use these questions to help make your own:

• What is my purpose for including this event or detail?
• Does it further the purpose of the story?
• Am I using it to gain sympathy or a laugh at the expense of the person I’m writing about?
• What are the long term consequences likely to be?
• Do the anticipated costs of  expected turmoil outweigh the benefits?
• What will that person think? Others who know the person?
• Can I generalize enough to mask the identity of this person?

You may think of other questions to add to this list. I’ll continue writing about this thread in future posts, so please participate in the conversation by posting additional questions and other thoughts in a comment.

Write now: a draft of a story with juicy content that you aren’t sure about sharing with anyone. Write the draft without consideration for propriety or anyone’s feelings. When you finish, look back through the story and underline sensitive passages. Consider each one. How does it contribute to the story? Would your message be clear without that line? Is there another honest way to say the same thing in a less offensive way?

Above All, Cause No Harm

“You can’t write the truth of someone without mentioning their warts and wrinkles as well as their angelic smile. And how can  you write about the warts and wrinkles without causing them distress?”

This question comes up in one form or another in every memoir and lifestory class I teach. Everyone hopes for stone tablet truth to guide them, but alas, there are no hard and fast rules. But take hope and use these tips to guide your decisions:

1) Write privately first.

It’s therapeutic to get angry feelings on the page, out in the open where you can see them. Sometimes simply writing the reasons for your rage focuses it, and the reasons may look ridiculous or blown out of proportion. Perhaps that’s enough and you can burn, shred or delete the words and all will be well.

If it isn’t well, think care-fully before sharing your thoughts lest you cause greater damage to self or others, or paint yourself into an unforeseen corner or difficult situation. I speak here of rage, but other emotions can be equally volatile. You can’t always know how others will hear or understand.

2) Go to the balcony.

The idea in this concept borrowed from negotiation texts is to rise above the situation and consider the points of view of all concerned in any conflict, misunderstanding, or emotional events. There is always another side to any story. Simply making the effort to look at other points of view may change the way you see things. 

3) Write from compassion rather than revenge.

Nobody wants to read whining stories, and those simply point fingers and write from a victim’s point of view are likely to be set aside rather soon. You may not understand why a person committed an evil or hurtful act, but whether it’s an “external” event such as failure to repay a loan, or an “internal” one like betrayal of trust, physical or emotional abuse, or other forms of pain, simply state what happened and how it affected you. Skip the name calling and judging. That will not gain you sympathy or credibility with readers, nor will it improve your state of mind and mental health. Give them the benefit of the doubt if you can and express empathy.

4) Get guidance from others.

Ask a trusted friend or writing group if your story is too judgmental or likely to cause pain to someone you care about – or worse yet, provoke legal complications. Ultimately it has to be your decision, but these advisers can help you tone things down or make decisions about certain story elements you may do well to omit.

5) Ask permission.

Many memoir writers mention somewhere in their books that they showed their draft to parents or others who might be offended or hurt by the material. They encountered surprisingly few objections. Requests for changes were often about things the author never would have expected.

However, few realize that their consent is no guarantee that no feelings will be hurt. For a variety of reasons, people may agree to allow you to publish something that actually is hurtful. To minimize this possibility, go back up the list to the point about compassion. Hopefully if your relationship is healthy enough that you were able to ask, you have come to the point of understanding and forgiveness, and expressing that that will surely blunt the pain for the offenders as well as gaining you points with readers.

6) Change names and details.

People who know you will probably know who you are writing about, but far fewer than if you use real names.

7) Write fiction.

You may have heard the adage, “All stories are true, some stories happened.” Some truth is best and most safely expressed in fiction.

Write now: write a personal essay on your feelings about showing other people’s warts and wrinkles in published stories. You may have someone specific in mind, or you may write more generally about people you once knew who are unlikely to ever read your story, but if they learned about it could be embarrassed.

Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowsky

You Can’t Trust Memory!

I would have bet half the farm that this picture I drew was an accurate representation of my first backyard in Albuquerque. I would have lost half that farm.

I pulled out my 64 color box of fragrant Crayolas a dozen years ago and had a blast drawing a vivid memory of that backyard, calling on artistic skills little improved since I last sat on that swing. I remembered sitting inside a curtain of leaves on the pictured stump of one of the four trunks of that willow tree. A second stump, hidden in the picture behind the two intact trunks, was cut off somewhat higher, about shoulder level for me as I sat on the lower one. I drew the grass beneath the tree, and my sandbox back somewhat behind the tree to the left. The chicken house is in the back, along with the storage shed.

Sometime later I asked my father when the two trunks had been amputated. He had no idea what I was talking about. “That tree had four trunks,” he insisted. “We never cut any off.”

His report was a jolt, but the nail in my memory’s coffin came when I reviewed blurry photos from the first roll of film I took with my first camera when I was three. This one settled the matter in my mind and convinced me, I can’t trust my memory. Mother is sitting on something – I have no idea what – in what passed for my sandbox, and the tree clearly has four trunks. There is no grass under that tree!

Where the devil did that memory of sitting on the stump having a tea party with my doll come from? I have no idea.

A later photo shows that later I did have a proper sandbox with  wooden sides around it, and as I think about it, the sandbox never could have been back where I drew it. That area was over the septic tank, and I didn’t have to be told twice not to walk there – it could cave in!

In the larger scheme of things, it doesn’t matter a bit whether I sat on that stump or not, whether the yard had grass, or the state and position of my sandbox. I’ve enjoyed that stump scene pretty much forever. To me, that’s still the true memory, whatever the evidence shows. So how should I handle this schizzy memory?

When I wrote The Albuquerque Years, a memoir of my preschool years, I intended it as a family historical document. I wanted it to be as accurate as possible, so in the face of the evidence, I chose to simply ignore the faulty-but-cherished memory of the tree stumps. The memoir is written as a simple past tense narrative, tightly confined to those few years, so there was no way to discuss discrepant memories, and it didn’t fit with the rest of the content anyway.

If my purpose were more literary and the structure more sophisticated, I might include my original memory, mentioning how happy I felt sitting there looking at blue sky peeking through green willow leaves with the scent of roses and honeysuckle wafting my way on gently balmy breezes that caressed my skin. That’s a memory I return to now in meditative moments. The memory carries its own truth, and I would let it stand on its own, with no further explanation.

This trivial example applies equally well to more substantial situations. One aim of a memoir is to document changes and insights, so it’s entirely appropriate to include discussion of discoveries such as mine – but only if they fit within the framework and structure of the story.

Write now: write about a time you discovered you remembered something wrong. What implications did the discovery have? How did you handle it? How might you incorporate this discover in a larger story?

No Two People Read the Same Story

“Oh dear, that must have been so painful!” murmured Laura (not her real name) after I finished reading a story to our writing group. Her tone oozed compassion, and I saw a couple of eyebrows raise quizzically as others turned to look at her. I appreciated her response, though feeling it was off target.

“Actually, it wasn’t,” I demurred,“at least not on a conscious level.”

That experience brought home a crucial fact we must keep in mind as we write. We can spend years honing our Truth and writing our stories with finesse worthy of a Pulitzer, but we can’t control readers’ perceptions.

Readers hear their own story in ours.

This is not news. Mayhem at Camp RYLA, an essay I wrote years ago, is based on first-hand experience with differences in the way individuals witnessed a shared experience.

I wrote that essay years ago, and since then I’ve learned that neuroscientists have not only confirmed the validity of my observations, they have explained them. We compare new input to existing memories and information in order to catalog it for future retrieval. This classification process filters the input to fit with what we already know and does so along multiple dimensions.

Laura has never written about her childhood, and I’m guessing it was not entirely happy.  That could explain why she found my story so painful while I, the one who lived the story, did not. She was probably hearing her story as I read.

Another possible factor

Another factor may be involved in this interchange. Some people are more keenly attuned to emotions than others. It’s sort of like eating chili. My mouth is lined with asbestos. Habañero peppers are a little over the top for me, but I love jalapeños. In contrast, some people I know think a sprinkle of  black pepper on mashed potatoes is living dangerously. Emotionally Laura may be a black pepper person.

Implications for writers

While you have little control over this, you can monitor the emotional tone of your story to make sure it accurately reflects your own feelings. Have you reflected sufficiently on them? Did you give careful thought to the words you used, or tap in the first one that came to mind? You may need to add or subtract a few story components to get the balance right.

For example, I’ve read three or four stories to this group from a memoir I’m drafting. The stories were about my mother. After the last one, Laura mentioned that my mother was a cold, unfeeling person. I was stunned! But even aside from knowing about Laura’s filters, I could see how she would get that impression from the limited selection of stories I’d shared.  Her input alerted me to be aware of this factor as I compile memoir material and to be even more thorough in examining the element of emotional reflection.

Bottom line: write your story with gusto, realizing that each reader will get a slightly different message from it, some quite different from the one you intended. This is no reflection on your skill as a writer. Think of your writing as the gift of a mirror you give to readers to make sense of their experiences in light of yours. Strong reactions from readers mean that you are stimulating them and creating emotional connections, and isn’t that a goal we all strive for?

Write now: think of a memoir or novel you’ve recently read that you related strongly to. Jot down some thoughts about how the material you recall related to your life and how reading this story changed your outlook on something. Expand your thoughts to how your life story may impact your readers.

Photo credit: Jayel Aheram

Fear Is a Story We Tell Ourselves

I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe.
      —Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Coast Trail

The minute I read this stunning line I recognized Truth in every fiber of my being, not related to any specific personal fear, but about fear in general. In a flash I realized it’s not just huge fears, like plane crashes or being attacked on the trail by a hungry bear, that cause distress. We all have daily irritations we choose not to confront because we fear that speaking out will be worse than stuffing our anger. We mutely mutter on, largely unaware of the story underlying our choices – or even that we are making choices.

The opening quotation occurs at the beginning of her solo adventure along the Pacific Coast Trail. Cheryl had plenty to be afraid of: a woman hiking alone in the wilderness is at risk from both two and four-legged predators (she met both). She might get lost (she did). She might run out of food or water (that was close). She might sustain an injury (she did) or get sick. Perhaps her biggest risk of all was the total ignorance and lack of backpacking experience that she finally admitted to herself as she heaved her unmanageable pack onto her back for the first time.

Cheryl faced most of these risks and other staggering obstacles head-on at one time or another, and  her new story worked. It kept her walking all the way from Mojave, California to the Bridge of the Gods on the Columbia River.

We can follow her example and use the power of new stories to alter or transform the direction of our lives. For stories with extra punch, explore your fears on the page, even the little ones, and write your new stories as insights emerge.

Why write?

Renowned psychology professor James Pennebaker postulates that a key factor to making expressive writing such a powerfully healing tool is that as people write about a troubling event over a period of days, chaotic thoughts begin coalescing into structured, meaningful stories. Writers who also begin exploring alternate points of view derive the most potent benefits.

Taking this one step further, an obvious conclusion is that those who explore alternate points of view create a new story to explain the past and guide future perceptions and choices.

Cheryl told herself one small story to enable herself to begin moving along the trail. By the end of her journey, she had told herself a new story about her entire life and justify the subtitle of her memoir: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. I urge you to pick up a copy of this best-selling book and use her experience as a guideline for a presumably less physically rigorous adventure in restorying your life.

Write now: about a recurring circumstance in your life, preferably something you’d like to change. As you write, pay close attention to thoughts that run through your mind, especially those that sound like messages. These connect you with your underlying “story.” Get that story on the page, then write a few alternative scenarios. Explore options you might consider impossible. You may be surprised at the new story options that pop out of nowhere onto your page. Leave a comment or send me an email about your success with this exercise.

Photo credit: Sharon Lippincott

Spreading Ripples

I crawled into my cave, pulled a rock over the entrance, and binged on memoirs for the past week or so. I got caught up in a ripple effect and made a few unexpected discoveries in the process.

In the previous post, guest blogger Samantha White explained how writing her memoir changed her life. This theme of writing as a transformational process is becoming a hot topic, and an increasing number of people are turning to writing specifically for its ability to heal, change and transform lives.

What I’ve rediscovered during my reading orgy is that this transformational power is contagious. When I read a story that changed the author’s life, by the time I close the covers, I’ve experienced some changes myself. I learn and grow right along with that author.

For example, one of the books I read is Mark Matousek’s memoir, Sex, Death, Enlightenment: A True Story. Reading this book was an adventure. In spite of the fact that lots of elements of our lives are black and white different, many of his insights and truths set off fireworks of recognition.

When I finished reading, I began to ponder a recent “conversation” with my Inner Critic about the memoir I’ve been working on for a couple of years. In that conversation, after IC finished ripping my work to shreds, he surprised me by giving me a bizarre instruction: I should “dive into the circle” of an ocular migraine I was experiencing at the time. This shimmering ring of light would lead me to the answers I need, he claimed. I thought I heard him mutter “I dare you!” as he faded from the scene.

Yeah, right. Woo woo! But hey – stuck writers are game for all sorts of weird tricks, no matter who suggests them. The time seemed right, so based on reverberations from Mark’s book, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and visualized that shimmering ring, then slid through it like a playful porpoise.

I surfaced in the middle of a situation that occurred early in my first year of school. At least a decade ago I had recognized that memory as a watershed moment. As with most other key girlhood memories, I’ve written all the juice out of that experience, I thought down to gray gristle. How could this be the answer to unblocking the stuck project that IC rightly deemed “bo-o-oring!”?

To my amazement, ripples generated by the stone of Mark’s story did their work and washed up an additional layer of discovery. The meaning of that event was even more profoundly significant than I’d yet realized. This is unexplored turf. That event is once more juicy and tantalizing, and the insight drips with timely promise.

Further details are beyond the scope of this post, but I mention it to show the value of shared insights. Regardless of how we go about clearing debris from our soul, writing about the experience can comprise a double blessing. Writing is a path to insight for many. Writing can strengthen and deepen it for those who follow other paths. When those stories are shared, they may spark further insight in readers. Mark’s story lit a candle in my life, and I have no doubt it has done so for tens of thousands of others over the years.

Write now: find a good memoir, perhaps one of Mark’s or Samantha Whites, or Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. Read it with a notepad at hand to record any insights it sparks. Journal or write stories based on those insights, or your thoughts about the book in general and how it might apply to you.

Everyday Editing

What to tell and what to hide is one of the most puzzling questions we all face when writing life stories and memoir. Although few may have realized this, this sort of decision isn’t limited to writing. We make them on a regular basis, perhaps daily, maybe hourly.

My epiphany on this matter came as I wrote a recent email. The email included statements such as “Ordinarily I would not have mentioned this, but …” and “knowing the other side of this story may help you understand … more clearly.”

Rereading that email, I realized that even when I’m not writing, I constantly edit what I say for some or all of these reasons:

To avoid coloring person A’s view of person B.  I realize that my perceptions and beliefs about any given individual reflect my experiences and values which may not pertain to others. Of course that’s most true of less favorable impressions. Favorable ones I share quite freely. When I was young, I often heard the aphorism, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

To help others avoid a pitfall or make sense of a puzzling situation. As an adult, I realize there are times when exposing the dark side of a situation or person may serve a valuable purpose in helping others avoid similar pain and pitfalls or to help them make sense of an otherwise baffling situation. But my personal code of ethics requires a compelling reason to do so.

To avoid embarrassing others. Children are taught (for better or worse) not to blurt out questions like “Why is that man all hunched over?” or observations like “Aunt Agatha sure is fat!” when that man or Aunt Agatha is within earshot. I could write an entire post about situations like this, but you get the drift.

To present myself in a favorable light. I admit it. I want to be liked and admired. I’m not eager to expose my many Achilles’ heels, though reluctance is crumbling with age and experience.

To express my thoughts in a way that makes sense to others. This requires a certain degree of awareness about the background and thought patterns of others and the ability to adapt to alternate points of view.

To keep others interested. How many times have you silently wished someone would get to the point? Excessive detail bogs down your story and causes glazed eyes and wandering attention in both readers and listeners.

Time limitations. I think at warp speed, about 16/7/365. There will never be enough time to report all my jumbled, overlapping, contradictory thoughts.

Filters and editing are an inherent part of effective communication in any mode. Most of us intuitively recognize the strategic importance of suiting both content and mode of expression to the purpose at hand as we go through our days. It’s no different with writing. Consider your reason for writing, what you hope to achieve, and the reaction you hope for from readers. Pair that with your best understanding of where they are coming from, and make you best call about what information will be most effective and helpful for them.

If you have brazen, inflammatory disclosures to make, you may feel safer doing so from behind the shield of print, but the issues involved in making that decision are almost identical to smaller ones you face each day.

Write and live honestly and boldly, with courage and compassion.

Write now: Think back over the last few days and identify situations where you chose to reveal or hide information. Use free writing to explore these decisions and the beliefs, attitudes and values that led you to make them. Then extend this reasoning to puzzling situations you face about disclosures in stories.

Mark Twain’s Advice to Memoir Writers

While strolling through the Twain on Main Festival in  Hannibal Missouri a couple of weeks ago, I ran into Mr. Twain himself. My writing hero graciously offered to pose for a picture, as you can see.

My husband let the cat out of the bag when he told Mark, “She’s a writer too.”

“What do you write?” he asked. “ Mysteries? Fiction?” 

When I told him I write lifestories and memoir, he confessed that he’s written a bit of that himself. “Do you have any advice for lifestory and memoir writers?” I asked this legendary icon.

“Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” he said without missing a beat. “You see, I like a good story well told. That is why I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”

“Telling stories is a great skill,” I agreed, “and you’re the best. May I ask you a question about writing?” He nodded. “What advice so you have about editing stories?

“Do it!” he said. “We write frankly and fearlessly but then we ‘modify’ before we print.” He paused and went on. “You need not expect to get your book right the first time. Go to work and revamp or rewrite it.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Anything else?” I asked.

“Yes. The time to begin writing a story is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is that you really want to say.”

“That’s a challenge I’m going to keep in mind for sure,” I told him. “And what about one of my favorite topics, writing description?”

He smiled mischievously. “God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. These are God's adjectives. You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by.”

“Mmm, nice!”  I waited expectantly and was not disappointed as he continued.

“When you catch an adjective, kill it.” He saw my eyebrows raise. “No, I don't mean utterly, but kill most of them – then the rest will be valuable. They weaken when they are close together. They give strength when they are wide apart. An adjective habit, or a wordy, diffuse, flowery habit, once fastened upon a person, is as hard to get rid of as any other vice.

“You and Steven King would get along well. He tells people to kill adverbs.”

“Steven King? Never heard of him, but he gives good advice.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out his watch and none too subtly glanced at the time. “Sorry my dear, I must excuse myself. If you are genuinely interested in my thoughts on the subject of writing, I hear people have been keeping track of remarks I’ve made various times and places. You can use some new-fangled thing Google thing to track them down.”

“Great idea Mr. Twain. I’ll do that right away, and thank you for your time and advice.”

Write now: select a story you’ve already finished to your satisfaction. Follow Mark Twain’s advice and write that story again, based on what you clearly and logically perceive that you really want to say. Kill as many adjectives (and adverbs) as you can in the process.

Dreamy Inspiration

Sleep is restful and restorative, and dreams a source of inspiration. Or so it’s supposed to be. The past few nights my dreams have been so full of inspiration that I awoke feeling as if I’d worked all night, but refreshed and energetic in spite of having done so.

The first night I wrote an important email about nineteen times, so often that I began realizing I was really asleep and became concerned that my unperfected drafts may have inadvertently crossed the boundary into waking reality and premature delivery. At that point, I concentrated extra hard on remembering the precise wording as the only viable way of harvesting the results of my nocturnal efforts.

I admit that as soon as I got up, I checked the Sent folder on my computer to be sure nothing had permeated the membrane between parallel universes, and though I felt a little silly, I also felt relieved. Right away I dashed off a draft of that email. It slid easily through my fingers in near perfect form on the first try.

Then next night was equally busy. I began editing a story I had written several weeks ago. After a short period of fiddling with words, I turned my attention to basic structure and discovered that the story had significantly stronger impact if I rearranged the order of several scenes. Once again, I was aware that I was dreaming and made extra effort to store it in a folder on my “awake” drive.

In actual fact, I had not written the story I “edited” in the second dream, but it is one I’ve given considerable thought to – a process I refer to as “pre-writing.” I didn’t have time to write the entire story the next morning, but I did jot down notes about the structural insights I had and will take them into account when I do commit the story to paper in the near future.

I often have such dreams, and I’m not sure what to make of them. Some may see them as indications of obsession or stress, but they were not anxious dreams. I was fully absorbed in the writing process, finding it rewarding and satisfying.

Who knows? Perhaps when I’m writing in real time, for example this blog post, I’m actually living a dream. Now if I can just dream the perfect structure for that memoir I’m working on … maybe … just maybe … I can write that dream into print.

In the final analysis, this brings into question the whole matter of reality and truth. Which is real? Which is True? The dream story or the waking one? Memoirists and philosophers have wondered this since mankind first stood on two feet.

Write now: think about overlaps you’ve noticed between your dreams and waking situations. Have you solved problems in your dreams? Write about this. Write about situations you’d like to dream answers to or problems you’d like to solve. Some say it’s possible to program dreams this way. Give it a try, then write the story.

 

A Picture Can Spark a Thousand Words

 Nothing can get words and memories flowing for a life writer quite like a picture. Whether you’re journaling, writing a simple story or crafting a memoir, pictures can bring back memories as fresh as wet paint, and having the picture as a focal point may enable you to revisit the memory from many angles.

The general wisdom is that looking through your own  photo stash will spur memories. I gave an example of how that can work in Photographic Memory Jolts, in October 2007.

Before the days of digital cameras, most people only took photos on special occasions, so reminders of everyday life are rare. Fortunately, there is an alternative: browse through magazines and picture books, or do keyword searches on sites like Flickr.com to find thought-provoking photos.

When you find a picture that resonates with you, tear it out, or copy digital ones into a writing prompt folder. Write about it right away, or stick it in a collection to use when you feel stuck or want to do some freewriting. I pulled the picture above from a pile of illustrations I tore out of magazines a few years ago to use as writing prompts for myself and writing groups. I love the look of astonishment and maybe a few other things on that fresh young face. The pile has served well, and writing from it is a popular group activity.

Whether you find pictures from your own photos or enticing new sources, here are tips for using them to best advantage:

• Let your mind wander as you look at the picture. Run your eyes over various aspects of it. For example, in the one above, notice the expression on the girl’s face, her wide eyes and gaping mouth, the time of day, the expanse of table. Look at her hair, perfectly combed into cute pony tails.
• If this is a familiar picture, try to look at it as if you have never seen it before and set aside as many memories as you are able.
• Assess your feelings about the picture. Do you feel happy? Sad? Anxious? Indifferent?  Excited?
• Ask yourself what the picture reminds you of.  Make a few notes about any memories that come to mind.
• If the picture is of someone else, try putting yourself into the other person’s situation. For example, pretend you are the girl in the picture above. What might you be seeing that has your eyes popping? Were you ever in a situation where you reacted like that? Do you think others know she’s there?

After dwelling on the picture and thinking briefly about your reactions and memories or imaginations, begin to freewrite about whatever comes to mind, keeping the picture in sight as you write. You may be surprised at what comes out.

If a picture evokes especially powerful emotions, try writing about it another time or two taking different perspectives each time. Your creativity will get a boost, you may have material for a great new story, and you may have some fascinating and helpful new insight for unclogging a memoir or your life.

Write now: find a pile of old magazines and start a collection of meaningful pictures to use as writing prompts. Keep them loose to reuse, or paste to the page you’re writing one. Alternatively, copy and paste a significant picture into a new document and write about it on your computer.

Writing Out the Tough Times

Nancy Pogue LaTurner is that author of Voluntary Nomads, a book I reviewed a couple of months ago. Read the review for general information about the book. For now I’ll simply say that I was mesmerized by the grace and compassion with which she wrote an account of a time when her husband became involved with Another Woman. After some brief correspondence, I asked Nancy if she would consent to an interview about the experience of writing that account. She did. Here it is:

SL: You made a brave decision to write about an affair your husband became involved in for a time. Many wives who remained married afterward may prefer to simply forget about that difficult time and avoid reliving the trauma. What was your purpose in including this material? How did you make this decision?

NPL: Before writing my stories, I took several writing classes and read as much as I could about the memoir genre. Absorbing great advice from William Zinsser, Natalie Goldberg, Judith Barrington, and others, I realized that the essential element in any memoir is the author's own truth. Then I made a conscious decision to write as honestly and openly as I could about what I believed to be my truth -- both the good and the not-so-good experiences and the lessons learned. "The whole truth and nothing but the truth" became my motto. My nemesis, That Woman, taught me an important lesson: in her words, "Life is a series of tradeoffs." I believe we are able to make better choices when we are fully aware that any of our choices can, and usually do, rule out other options.

SL: Did writing about it reopen the wound and/or heal it?

NPL: It is important to note that the events took place more than twenty-five years ago. But, even though I approached the writing of this issue with resolve, I still suffered pangs of the long ago pain and anger. In fact, in the beginning I couldn't write it in first person. So I methodically outlined scenes and created character profiles for a fiction short story. About midway through my preparations, a bright light bulb lit and my story took its own direction toward an ending that turned out to be the complete opposite of what transpired in real life. The process was like picking a scab -- it drew a few drops of blood without completely opening the old wound -- and it took me right down to a basic level of healing. Experiencing an alternative choice (that is, to leave my husband) within the fictional account empowered me to let go of any residual anger I still harbored.

SL: How did you handle the matter of letting your husband know you planned to write (or had written) about this and include it in the finished manuscript? How did he react?

NPL: After I finished and polished the short story, I gave it to my husband. His comments revealed that the fictional account provided him new insights into my feelings. It also resurrected some of his old guilt and shame. We had a few valuable discussions on the subject, but he still seemed reluctant about "going public." He did, however, leave the final decision up to me.

SL: How did your children respond?

NPL: Our daughter, also a writer, gave me her complete support, both on the infidelity issue and also on the revelations about her own teenage problems. Our son gave no feedback. He explained that he couldn't bear to read the manuscript and thus verify that the best years of his life were in his childhood. Now, three months after publication, he says that he is reading the book and finds it "interesting to view those years through his mother's adult eyes." I hope to create an opportunity to hear more from him when he finishes reading.

SL: What sort of response have you gotten to that revelation from friends and relatives?

NPL: I also gave the manuscript before publication to my husband's younger sister and her husband. My sister-in-law urged me to examine my motives for telling about our marital woes. She wanted me to be sure I wasn't doing it to punish my husband or get revenge. That prompted another round of soul-searching for me.

One of the first copies of the published book went to a dear friend who gave excellent feedback on all aspects of the memoir. His heartfelt comments on our near-divorce had the most impact, especially when he revealed that what we thought was our "shameful secret" was actually known to many through the grapevine of our community. My husband and I both felt unburdened -- he no longer had to bear the weight of secrecy and I felt my courage had been vindicated.

SL: Would you do it again?

NPL: Absolutely.

SL: Thank you Nancy. Hopefully your answers will give hope, courage and guidance to others who face challenging situations and want to use writing to heal residual pain and anger.

Visit Nancy’s blog to read excerpts from the book and more.

Write Now: think of a challenging situation in your life and write about it as fiction. Give it a new ending. See how that shifts your point of view about the situation.

When Your Story Flips Upside-Down

A high school acquaintance recently pulled me into a Facebook group for people who grew up in Los Alamos – my tribe! They have posted pictures of historic scenes around Los Alamos and a lively forum-type discussion has sprung up about who remembers what and how. A fascinating sort of collaborative story is emerging with a type of shared, collective memory, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

One of the members is a retired LAHS chemistry teacher who arrived soon after I left. At some point I posted this comment:

Was Mr. Etherly still there when you arrived at LAHS? Or Mr. Cooper? Mr. E taught all the chem classes except the one I took from Mr. Cooper my senior year. I did not understand all the fuss from Mr. Etherly's students about how hard chemistry was. Mr. Cooper made it sooo easy! Then I took Chem 101 in college and had a seriously rude awakening. Alas! Mr. Cooper was a delightful man, and I always thought of him when my kids began watching Mr. Rogers. But a chemistry teacher he was not. Fortunately I was not meant to be a chemistry major, so no harm done, at least to me.

With gentle kindness, she replied that she had the highest regard for Mr. Cooper, and his students had loved him. “He was a fine teacher,” she said. Several of his past students agreed.

That’s when my mind went into spin mode. I felt a bit awkward and … confused. I pondered. I journaled. What was true? Was Mr. Cooper really a bumbling beginner who had been unable to control his class? Had I missed something? Suddenly I realized that not only had his class been genuinely fun, but everything I remember about chemistry traces back to his class, not the one at Texas Tech. Mr. Cooper made chemistry come to life and seem approachable. How many teachers can do that? I suddenly recognized his gift. He allowed the natural leaders in class to emerge, and let us feel engaged with it at our own best levels.

Then I remembered hearing that Chem 101 was a washout class at Texas Tech, intended to thin the herd and deter all but the most robust students from pursuing careers in science and engineering. That may not be all bad. In fact, it served me well. For a brief few weeks I actually considered majoring in chemistry. It did not take me long to see the folly of that decision.

When all was written and reflected upon, I realized that my attitude toward Mr. Cooper had been wrong-side out, and I owe both him and his compassionate colleague a debt of gratitude.

This group has sparked several re-visions and trance-formations in my Story, beyond many that have already occurred (see Your Own Magic Crystal Ball . Writing memoir becomes especially challenging when memories and perceptions are in such flux. Power tools for continuing to analyze and re-evaluate experience, then anchor it in story are especially valuable at times like this.

I collect power tools for life writers that are fun to use as well as enlightening. I will share a few of my favorites in February in Soaring High, Digging Deep, a three-week NAMW teleclass. This class will be an ideal opportunity to connect with others who may be helpful in shaking loose the shackles of assumptions and memory habits you’ve become accustomed to. Click here for more details and to sign up.

Write now: about a long-standing assumption you’ve had about someone . Challenge your beliefs about the person and see how they may change. Look for any silver linings in the cloud – or perhaps feet of clay in someone you’ve had on a pedestal that may have been a bit high.

Photo credit: Jason Rogers