“You leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences”

The landscapes of your stories, the natural settings, influenced who you were becoming in the past and who you are today.

Maybe your place soothed you, maybe it roughed you up.

Your place, its geography and culture, impacted how you think—and even how you speak.

“How hard it is to escape from places!

However carefully one goes, they hold you—

you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences,

little rags and shreds of your very life.”

(Katherine Mansfield, English writer)

Perhaps your place’s weather impacted your appearance. And maybe even the way you work.

For example, after living on the equator for 11 years, where blazing heat forces people to move s-l-o-w-l-y, I’ve concluded that my most significant place, western Washington, and the Pacific Northwest’s cool, clammy climate, allows folks to accomplish a lot more than a hot climate does.

The geographical factor, in turn, influences and persuades when it comes to philosophies, accomplishments, and lifestyles. In Seattle, I rubbed elbows with others that high-energy region begat:

Starbucks, Amazon, Microsoft (Bill Gates went to high school in our part of town), Costco, Boeing (I grew up a five-minute walk from Bill Boeing’s property and, as a kid, took many a hike through his woods), Nordstroms (I went to school with one of the Nordstroms).

In Seattle, in contrast to equatorial living, people walk fast. They talk fast. There you find can-do entrepreneurial philosophies. Pacific Rim philosophies. Environmental philosophies. Rainforest-dwellers’ philosophies. Loggers’ philosophies. Coffee philosophies. Volcano-survivor philosophies. Earthquake-survivor philosophies. Ferry-rider philosophies.

Your territory—good or bad—influenced your identity and your dreams. 

Your place whittled you and carved your wings so you could fly into your future and become the person you are today.

Notice how Dr. Linda Joy Myers invites you to enter her childhood through setting, a sense of place. She writes about:

“… living in Oklahoma, in the middle of the Great Plains, in a town that literally was in the middle of nothing but land and wheat and sky. The wind molded us, pushed and pulled us, threw red dirt in our faces, lifted our hair straight up. As children, we had to lean into the wind to walk….

“The golden wheat throbbed against the deep blue sky, all of it was everywhere, there were no boundaries. The wind stoked the wheat into the amber waves of grain of the song, and at night the moon rose, huge and round and smiling over the tiny specks of people that appeared insignificant in all that magnificence.” 

Barry Lopez writes that he was “shaped by the exotic nature of water in a dry Southern California valley; by the sound of wind in the crowns of eucalyptus trees; by the tactile sensation of sheened earth, turned in furrows by a gang plow; by banks of saffron, mahogany and scarlet cloud piled above a field of alfalfa at dusk; by encountering the musk from orange blossoms at the edge of an orchard; by the aftermath of a Pacific storm crashing a hot, flat beach … the height and breadth of the sky, and of the geometry and force of the wind.” (We are shaped by the sound of wind, the slant of sunlight)

  

“… However we feel about

a particular place in our lives,

or whether the drama that unfolded there

was one of joy or sorrow,

the invitation in writing memoir is this:

explore the personal and other meanings of your place.

Doing so can not only help you locate your story

in a concrete and complex world,

it can help you discover its larger meanings and connections.”

(Tracy Seeley, author of My Ruby Slippers, the Road Back of Kansas)

Read that last part again: “… the invitation in writing memoir is this: explore the personal and other meanings of your place. Doing so can … help you discover its larger meanings and connections.”

That’s key in writing memoir: discovering personal meanings, larger meanings, and connections.

So, search for specific words to describe your places—vivid words, distinct words, quintessential words, words unique to that locale.

Here’s a perfect example:

“If we read the Palestinian poet Darwish … we will find ourselves mouthing jasmine, doves, olives, veils, whereas if we read a poet like Marcus Goodyear, we will find ourselves breathing to the staccato of cactus, cattle, tree poker.” (L.L. Barkat)

Are you writing about:

• a summer in Jamaica?
• Marching in Vietnam war protests?
• Falling in love? Or out of love?
• Watching a loved one die?
• Giving birth?
• Sitting with an Oscar-winning actor at a church dinner?
• Serving meals in a homeless shelter?

Picture those settings as if for the first time. That will help you recapture your sense of place. Use sensory details (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste).

Your readers need you to develop the key settings in your memoir. That will allow them to join you in your story—and that’s important because that’s how they’ll get the most out of it.

If readers can enter into your story with you, if they can experience your story with you, then your story can be more than words on a page—it can change your readers’ lives.

Related posts:

Must-know info about your memoir’s sense of place

Make your memoir come alive through a sense of place

Creating a sense of place is essential for your memoir

Use setting to ground your memoir and keep readers reading

Do you need to work on your memoir’s outside settings?