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“What are you looking at me for? I didn’t come to stay . . . Whether I could remember the rest of the poem or not was immaterial. The truth of the statement was like a wadded-up handkerchief, sopping wet in my fists, and the sooner they accepted it the quicker I could let me hands open and the air would cool my palms.”
So begins I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the first of six volumes of memoirs written by poet Maya Angelou. Using powerful imagery—“the dress . . . sounded like crepe paper on the back of hearses”—Angelou, immerses readers in the culture of pre-Civil Rights Arkansas, her own personal losses, and the hopes that survived even in the darkest of days.
The enormous popularity of memoirs such as Angelou’s—and more recently Angelas Ashes: A Memoir—speaks volumes about our love of riveting tales, even though some pull readers into the darkest corners of human experience.
But what defines this genre, and how does it differ from other, extraordinarily similar, formats? And how to write one? Here’s what memories—and the books they inspire—are made of.
Tackling theme
Unlike the clear demarcation between fiction and non-fiction, romance and western, the memoir walks a fuzzy line between autobiography, travelogue, essay and diary. Written in the first person, the memoir generally focuses on a single aspect of a person’s life, and has an underlying theme woven throughout.
Although a memoir may follow a chronological sequence, it’s not a chronological accounting of every life event—as seen in an autobiography. Compare, for example, Jimmy Carter’s book Turning Point - A Candidate, A State, And A Nation Come Of Age. While the ex-President certainly could have written an autobiography of his life to date, he choose, instead, to focus on his first race for public office.
And what about a classic “journey” tale? Well, not all travelogues are memoirs, but some memoirs can be travelogues. That’s because the emotional or psychological journey experienced by the author may take place during an actual physical journey. If a real-life Inman had written Cold Mountain, for instance, the account of his journey would be a memoir. That’s because with each experience on the way home, he developed a greater sense of his own inner journey.
As for a more personal, diary-like tale, let’s talk about Ice Bound, the gripping account of Dr. Jerri Nielsen’s battle with breast cancer while trapped at the South Pole. Clearly, the outer focus is Nielsen’s autobiographical story of her self-administered chemotherapy while waiting for a flight out during the Antarctic winter. And yet, underlying the life and death struggle is Nielsen’s search for self-discovery.
Extraordinary Story
While thousands of storytellers write memoirs every year, few ever make it into print, and fewer still to the best-seller list. Agents like New York-based Loretta Barrett, are swamped with submissions from wannabe memoirists, their manuscripts spilling the beans on “terrible childhoods, sexual abuse, or drug and alcohol recovery.”
So what separates successful works like McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes from dull manuscripts that warrant the quick pink slip?
“Beautiful writing and extraordinary story,” says Barrett. Unless you’re a celebrity, she advises, the question to ask yourself is, “Will the general public pay $25 to read a book by an unknown—particularly if the story is average and the writing pedestrian?” Probably not.
But what makes for great prose? Some say it’s writing that comes from the heart. I say it’s writing that captures the heart. Or the belly, or the throat, or the ear. Think Norman Maclean’s near-memoir A River Runs through It, the story based on his Montana childhood and the family for whom “there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.” What writer among us can read A River’s last line (“I am haunted by waters.”) without seizing a pen and writing til daybreak?
And story? Was Angelou’s tale different from any other kid who grew up with losses? Or, McCourt’s tale of gut-twisting poverty more than a hardluck story? Yes, and no.
Writers of extraordinary memoirs strive for the impossible—weaving a theme of universal relevance that set off a vibration in every fiber of the reader’s mind and body—all while walking a tightrope over a crocodile klatch named cliché. And, although it’s great that you kicked a bad habit, what’s the story beneath the story?
McCourt, Maya Angelou, Frank Rich and Carter each wrote compelling tales using an honest voice that drew readers into worlds familiar, yet not. Most of us will never suffer McCourt’s poverty or Nielsen’s breast cancer, but we do recognize the Everyman quality—the struggle to survive while finding meaning in the effort. And What Of Those Crocodiles?
If you’ve browsed through a bookstore lately, you may have noted some memoirs on the front display (like Madeleine Albright’s Madame Secretary), while others barely have the strength to crawl over to the remainder table. Why the difference? Mediocre memoirs simply miss the mark, in theme, prose, or both.
Take Ann-Margret’s My Story. Not only is it a struggle for the reader to actually find the “story,” it’s tough wading through the language. Compare, for example her, “I could have suffered emotional damage from being the outsider in a strange culture, had Mother not helped me make friends by signing me up for dance lessons at the Marjorie Young School of Dance,” with an excerpt from Angelou’s The Heart of a Woman: “Black and white Americans danced a fancy and often dangerous do-si-do. In our steps forward, abrupt turns, sharp spins and reverses, we became our own befuddlement. . . The year’s popular look was Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, and its title was an apt description of our national psyche. We were indeed traveling, but no one knew our destination nor our arrival date.” Case closed.
As for theme—sure, the star-watchers of America may have loved My Story. But, when served on a platter alongside The Heart of a Woman, no gourmet would dare pass up Angelou’s journey to passion, intimacy, and commitment. Selling the tale es, memoirs are a tough sell—but when they’re good, they’re very, very good. And yours may be the breakout bestseller that launches you into Oprah’s world.
But how can you make sure your memoir even gets read?
Craft a tale with universal relevance, whether you’re writing about a national tragedy that changed your world, or a seemingly trivial event that determined the composition of your life. Find your theme—illness, abuse, bigotry, poverty, love, separation, justice—and weave it like a master craftsman. It can meander through your book like a long-winded storyteller, or be as painful as an open, gushing wound—but don’t lose it in the trappings of the tale.
Find the extraordinary in your story. The same basic topics color the pages of best-selling memoirs, so makes yours stand out. How many people wrote about prejudice before Carter’s An Hour Before Daylight, his sweet tale of the rural Georgia of his youth? Sure, it helps that he was President—but it doesn’t diminish the reader’s view into a place and time where bigotry was the soup de jour.
Carter’s straightforward voice and simple style state the anti-prejudice case far more effectively than the books whose writers ride the race horse, beating it for all its worth. Take for example his friendship with A.D., a black boy who was Carter’s closest playmate. “It never seemed to me that A.D. tried to change, except when one of my parents was present. Then he just became much quieter, watched what was going on with vigilance, and waited until we were alone again to resume his more carefree and exuberant ways.” No strident jockey can beat him.
Want to write and sell a memoir? First, read the best. Then, once your theme and story are set, write from the heart and filter it through the soul. Infuse every word with a beauty that makes even the ugliest tale impossible to put down.
And that’s what memories are made of.
Side Note
No matter how true and riveting your story is, be careful naming real people in your memoir. Richard Burton’s battle with the booze was public knowledge, so wife Elizabeth Taylor could pen her struggles with Burton’s demons with impunity. However, if your memoir reveals daddy dearest’s sexual abuse, grab a lawyer and get some advice. Dissing private citizens can be cause for libel or defamation of character charges—regardless of the truth.
Naming a public person in your memoir may not save you from a lawsuit either. A couple of years ago, former New York Governor Mario Cuomo filed a $15 million libel suit against author Greg Palast and publisher Plume, claiming the book The Best Democracy Money Can Buy includes a libelous claim that Cuomo influenced a federal judge to dismiss a verdict.
Hiding a real person’s identity behind a fictionalized name and description, or using a real person’s name to describe your childhood villain can get you into hot water too. Peyton Place author Grace Metalious was sued by a man in her hometown for using his name in her steamy potboiler.
Best advice on this point? Check with an attorney. Of course, if you’re lucky enough to have an agent, chances are high that the agent will run any potential problems by their own counsel.
January 25th, 2008 at 9:35 am
Very interesting. I really like what you said about memoirs being autobiographical, travelogue, diary and everything.