🎧 Speaking It Into Being: The Day I Became a Memoir Writer

When telling someone makes it real

A behind-the-scenes look at that terrifying moment when you first tell someone about your memoir, plus an intimate glimpse into the conversation that launched Blackbird

Welcome into Flight School:

Memoir. Oh memoir. How do I know thee? How can I understand thee? And how can I write thee in a way that honors experience, that allows my chin to remain lifted in dignity, that shines a light on the darkness within?

The Past Unfurls

Even as my thirty-three-year-old self worried terribly about what Steve would say to my wanting to write a book…ahem…a memoir, and even though I still had nary a clue about how to take my shrink-wrapped past tucked within three reductionist headlines—Mother died. Father died. Brother killed himself and unfurl it to reveal a childhood that included the rolling Sierra Nevada mountains, the bitter, musty twist of sage-infused air, and the itchy softness of the mint leaves that grew in patches in our backyard…I knew I had to write about this life. This beautiful, terrible, painful, and confusing life.

The Moment of Truth:

“You want to write what?” Steve asked.

I had just sat him down, brought him a beer, and slid a copy of Girl Interrupted on the ottoman between us. A solid example would be helpful for this man-of-the-earth. The beer? Well, that would loosen him up.

“A memoir, like this,” I said and motioned at the book. 

This conversation was stalled by a bigger revelation. I was indeed pregnant. Two months along. While that big news to settled in—calls to the family and celebrations with friends—I did more research about the genre and was now armed and ready for any question he might have.

Steve took a long pull of the beer, then set aside the bottle and picked up the book.

“You need a good story, something of interest,” I said, as if I were some expert on the form, “something with a punch, which I’m sure you’ll agree I have with the death of my family.” 

We were in the living room of our now nearly finished house that day. The room painted a warm tone of honey cream. Underfoot, a space rug of purples and olive greens. Over there, the fireplace. Over there a picture window draped with sheers. 

Steve sat on the sofa.

I perched on the armchair.

Steve turned through a few of the pages and read a few lines. I went quiet and it seemed I had swallowed a bird for all the flapping in my chest. I suddenly felt so stupid. And yet I wanted it so badly it almost hurt.

“I don’t get it,” he finally said, tossed the book back on the ottoman. “Is this like my Aunt Lois, who wrote that family history and bound it up for everyone last Christmas?” 

“No. That’s a biography,” I said and went silent again.

Finding the Words He'd Understand

Think Jennifer, I told myself, stop explaining form and speak the language this man will understand.

Steve was an auctioneer now. A house renovator. A vintage car restorer: Old Volvos and BMWs. Steve was a guy who worked in the material world where things could be touched, bought and sold. I needed to speak in grounded, practical terms.

Yet another “project,” a dilapidated garage.

“I’ll sell it,” I said then. The words out with more bravado than I felt, “I’ll write a book, then I’ll sell it, and earn an advance…like a down payment.”

“Isn’t that kind of hard?” he asked, looking at the book between us now and then at me again.

Yes, I wanted to say with a near-maniacal laugh. It’s impossible. Only a handful of people can do it and half of those will lose their minds. Ever heard of Sylvia Plath? Virginia Woolf? Hemingway? Dead. Dead. Dead.

“No. It’s probably super easy,” I said with a breezy wave. “I’ve written news stories. Produced entire newscasts. And…I’ve won awards for both. Writing a book can’t be that different. You’ll see. It’ll be great.” 

The Stakes Get Higher

On a roll now, I rushed forward with my full plan.

“I’ll take creative writing classes now over at Portland State. Learn as much as I can. Then the baby will come and since I obviously need to be home taking care of him or her, well, I’ll just write while the baby sleeps. Easy!”  

Steve took up his beer. Sitting back on the sofa, he seemed…baffled… but not totally against this idea.

“So, you want to publish a book?”

“Yes. I mean, I want to write one first but then yes, I want to get it published, too.”

“An you think you can sell it?”

No, I almost said. No way, but instead I nodded. “Yes. Absolutely.”

What I would come to understand about memoir was this: Using the tools found in literature - scene, exposition, concrete description, structure, plot, character development, inner and outer arc - the writer takes on a section of life that had particular impact. The story should challenge beliefs and offer alternatives to mainstream notions. Like the best literature, a memoir can and should be effortful to read, thought-provoking for the reader. But first, you have to say the words out loud.

✍️ Your Turn

Think about the first person you told about your memoir. Write the scene: Where were you? What exactly did you say? How did your body feel in that moment? Share your scene in the comments.

Thanks for being with me, Jennifer. 🐦‍⬛