The Mystery of Memoir

Having just relocated with my husband from Australia, and with time on my hands, I signed up for a writing course in New York City to learn about the craft of fiction, specifically short stories. I loved the intensity of this form and the fact that every word counted. I began a few stories and worked on them obsessively. Memoir was not even on my radar.

Then in short order, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, my father died and the complex relationship with my mother became impossible. My brain was like a kitchen drawer, clogged with too many recharging cables. I needed to somehow unravel the cables.

A serious MS episode sapped my energy, and I could now only sit at the computer for short periods. Abandoning my foray into fiction, I began jotting snippets from recent events – an airport scene, a snatch of dialogue from an exchange with my mother. There was no plan; it was more compulsion. Writing provided a sense of escape from my situation, but also, somehow, a sense of control.

Gradually, my health improved and, by now back in Sydney, I enrolled in a memoir course. The teacher’s first advice was to write where the energy is, rather than worry about structure and chronology. I started with my fragments. The driving energy stemmed from the rift with my mother as I was moving to the USA, centering around a piano. The teacher liked it, but said, “You’re not capturing this fascinating character of your mother.”

I was taken aback – this was my story. I tried again, but still wasn’t getting it. Then it clicked. I was telling her side of the story from my perspective. I needed to get out of the way and let my mother appear on the page and speak for herself.

I replaced editorializing with action and dialogue. Mum had a particular turn of phrase and it was easy to capture her words. Although familiar with the “show, don’t tell” mantra, I’d been too emotionally invested to apply it to this critical part of the story. Taking my ego out of it revealed Mum more clearly – even to me, and was perhaps my most important lesson in writing memoir. This would become my first stand-alone story.

By the end of the course, I had several completed stories. I kept writing “where the energy was.” With each story, I gained more insight into how I’d arrived at that point in my life, prompting me to go back further, and further again, writing family stories, some funny, some sad, some both. Many alluded to my struggle with Mum. I had no idea what to do next.

I returned to the teacher for guidance. She identified stories that thematically worked together, defining a narrative arc. Once pointed out, it was so obvious I wondered how I’d missed it. It was exciting to work with something tangible, but to form a continuous narrative, the stories needed to be unthreaded, gaps filled in, repetition removed.

After many re-writes, I found a memoir competition and submitted without considering the implications if my manuscript won. When it did, all I felt was panic.

Publishing memoir is famously fraught. My family had no idea I’d written it and I wasn’t going to risk a falling-out for a book contract. Memoir is about recording and making sense of our experience. But the writing can become entwined with events yet to be lived, pointing to actions that need to be taken and conversations that need to be had.

It was time to speak to Mum, a sharply intelligent country woman, who called things as she saw them. We sat together on her verandah. My heart raced. She knew something was up.

I told her I’d written a book that re-visits some painful times for our family, about the prize money and potential book deal. I also told her I wouldn’t go ahead if she had objections.

“How much?” she asked. “How much did you win?”

Mum was a child of the Great Depression and still lived with that mentality. When I revealed, “$10,000,” she didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, of course you should publish. I just won’t read it.”

I realised that while Mum had no interest in looking back, she also didn’t want to stand in the way of my achievement – and for that selfless act, I had great respect.

Mum never did read Marzipan and Magnolias – and I was fine with that. We rarely referred to the book again, but in that short conversation, something shifted between us and we made our peace.

At author talks, I’ve been asked if I was tempted to fictionalise the mother-daughter relationship. But that would miss the whole point. It’s the very fact that events happened in the exact way they did that gives a story – even a quiet story – its punch.

In the documentary, History of The Eagles, guitarist Joe Walsh paraphrases an unnamed philosopher: “As you live your life, it appears to be anarchy and chaos, random events, non-related events, smashing into each other…and it’s overwhelming…And later, when you look back at it, it looks like a finely crafted novel.”

To me, this encapsulates the mystery of memoir.

*This story recently appeared on The Brevity Blog, featuring essays on craft and the writing life.