What have you done with your regrets?

 

We can’t go back and undo bad decisions and failures but, if we’re wise, we learned from them and made positive changes.

 

And here’s good news: Your memoir can help others deal with both success and with failure.

 

That means it’s important to write stories about getting life right and blowing it, about succeeding and falling short.

 

 

If we share our stories, maybe our kids, grandkids,

and great-grands

won’t make the same mistakes.

Your story is important.

 

Someone once asked on Facebook, “What do you regret?” The question got some lighthearted and groan-worthy replies:

 

Cooking with margarine

Using artificial sweeteners

That perm I got in the ‘70s

That orange body suit

EVERYTHING about high school

Reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull and thinking it was profound

 

It’s good—valuable, recommended—to include funny, entertaining stuff. Humor connects you and your readers. It endears you to them and makes them keep reading. (More on humor in future blog posts.)

 

So include some humor, but don’t stop there.

Write your way into more consequential failures.

 

Think back: What do you regret?

 

• Maybe you lament getting into a bad habit or addiction.
• Or losing contact with a friend or relative.
• Not saying “I love you” often enough.
• Spending too much time on your career and not enough time with your children.
• Family feuds.
• Telling a lie.
• Cheating.
• Hating someone.
• Abusing someone.

 

Such things hurt, don’t they? Sometimes painful regrets can endure for years.

 

But I have more good news. . . .

 

One of the beauties of writing a memoir is the pondering, examining, and reflecting it requires. The process can prompt us to ask God and others for forgiveness and to turn our lives in a different direction.

 

And it gets even better:

 

“That God still chooses to use us flawed human beings

is both astonishing and encouraging.”

(Richard Stearns)

 

Yes, God can and does use us, flawed as we are:

By telling our stories,

 those who come after us can learn from our mistakes

and gain wisdom for living life well—

 

but only if they know our stories.

 

So we’re back to this question: What do you regret?

 

• What was God doing in the event, as you see it now, in retrospect?
• What deeper lessons did God have for you in the experience?
• What did you learn about yourself?
• What did you learn about God? His forgiveness?
• How did the experience change your life? What new person did you become?

 

What stories can you write about doing things differently in the future? About getting a second chance? About making a new start?

 

Never doubt this: Your story is important.

“For God to use your painful experiences,

you must be willing to share them with others.

You have to stop covering them up,

and you must honestly admit your faults,

failures, and fears.

Doing this will probably be your most effective ministry.

People are always more encouraged when we

share how God's grace helped us in weakness

than when we brag about our strengths.”

(Pastor Rick Warren, Facebook, November 1, 2021)

 

Write your stories!

Others need to hear them!

 

 

Back to Basics: Your stories are all around even if you don’t recognize them

 

Your stories are everywhere, all around you, just waiting for you to put them in writing.

 

Look at your cell phone contact list, your address book, email inbox, friends on Facebook and other social media. What stories can you write about the fun you had with them? About the adventures? What skills did those people teach you?

 

Go deeper: What did you learn alongside them about failure, hard work, success, romance, illness, teamwork? What lessons did they teach you?

 

Think back: Who taught you about honesty, integrity, perseverance, kindness, compassion, generosity, faith in God? How, specifically, did those individuals shape you and encourage you to be the person you are today?

 

Stories are everywhere—not just stories. God-and-you stories.

 

 Look around your office or your house. What have you tucked into a special drawer or a safe deposit box?

 

If a tornado siren sounded, or if a smoke alarm went off, what would you grab and take to a safe place?

 

If those items could talk, what stories would they tell?

 

I think about that question a lot.

 

Someday I want to write stories based on my old blue American Tourister carry-on bag. It traveled with me for thirty years across three continents: from this planet’s most primitive places to the world’s most sophisticated cities. What stories it could tell!

 

What stories would my husband’s grandmother’s aluminum colander tell? And her ironing board? I don’t know how many years Grandma Jennings used them, but I’ve used them for more than fifty years! Five generations of our family (so far) have used those items. Imagine what stories they could tell—stories of God’s goodness to our family, generation after generation.

 

Why have you thrown out some possessions 

but kept others for many years?

 

Why could you never throw them out or give them away? 

Because they represent something important to you. 

What is that something?

 

Look around and ask yourself:

 

“If this dining room table could talk, what stories would it tell?”

 

“If my old Bible could talk, what stories would it tell?”

 

“If these boots could talk, what stories would they tell?”

 

What about a photo? A book? Washing machine? Piece of art? Jewelry? Woodworking tools? Coffee mug? Mechanical tools? Art supplies? A vase? A favorite old devotional book?

 

Many items could tell stories—stories significant to you and your family.

 

Glenda Bonin suggests we interview key people—and even ourselves.

 

“Don’t be timid about interviewing yourself and others,” Glenda writes. “A good interviewer asks questions and waits for answers. . . . Listen deeply, allowing as much time as needed for quiet moments of thought. Do not rush in with a new question until you are satisfied that the question has been fully explored. . . . These moments are often where the best family stories can be found. . . .”

 

I like Glenda’s suggestion: Interview others, yes, but also interview yourself, and “listen deeply, allowing as much time as needed. . . .”

 

You might even schedule a time to think, to ponder an item’s importance. Or maybe you could contemplate while you drive to work or mow the lawn or walk the dog.

 

What questions do you need to ask?

 

What questions do you need to ask yourself?

 

Peel back layers. 

Wait for answers. Listen for them.

 

When answers surface, write your stories—

not just stories. Write God-and-you stories.

 

Remember, while you’ve been using and enjoying those items, God has always been with you, working in you, working on your behalf.

 

You don’t need to experience news-making miracles to witness God at work. He is in your everyday comings and goings.

 

As Oswald Chambers says,

 

“We look for visions from heaven

and for earth-shaking events

to see God’s power. . . .

Yet we never realize that

all the time God is at work

in our everyday events

and in the people around us.”

 

Write your stories!

 

 

Back to Basics: Have you thought about writing an essay-type memoir?

 

The memoir you want to write will be packed with rich material for your family, friends, and maybe even strangers—after all, your story is important—

 

but to impact readers,

you must help them understand your story—

even  more than that,

you want them to enjoy and benefit from reading your story.

 

That’s why you need to structure—to arrange—your memoir carefully.

 

Richard Gilbert writes that memoirists must “focus not just on the story they want to tell but on how best to present it.”

 

Charlotte Rains Dixon explains the importance of structure this way:

 

“A piece of creative writing without structure

is like bread without yeast. Or a pen without ink.

Or coffee without caffeine in it.

 

“Picture a clothesline with a string between the two poles

all loose and wavy. No way can you hang clothes on it.

Now think of that same string as pulled taut,

and it accepts your shirts and shorts and underwear just fine.

Structure allows your [story’s] scenes

and characters and plot points to hang on.

Otherwise, they are just dangling in the wind.”

 

Last week we began looking at how to structure your memoir. (Click on Are you paralyzed by the thought of writing your memoir?) We looked at one option—arranging it chronologically.

 

But not all memoirists write their stories chronologically. Today let’s look at writing an essay-style memoir—a compilation of stand-alone essays.

 

For an essay-type memoir, you could use a poem to establish your structure.

 

While you read the poem below, notice: Each line could be a separate chapter in which you tell readers what you’ve experienced or what you’ve watched someone else do, and how you, the memoirist, changed as a result:

 

“If: A Father’s Advice to His Son”

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor living friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

(Rudyard Kipling)

 

A poem like Kipling’s could provide you with an effective framework—and result in a powerful memoir.

 

Here’s another idea for writing an essay-type memoir: Choose a Bible passage as your structure. For example, each of the Beatitudes could serve as the topic of one chapter:

 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

(Matthew 5:3-10)

 

Using each Beatitude as a chapter, you can write accounts that illustrate (a) what the Beatitude means and (b) how to live it out in everyday life—chapters about your own experience or about something you’ve witnessed in others.

 

For example, for the first Beatitude, define “blessed.” Explain what Jesus meant by “poor in spirit.” Then write about your own experience of living a poor-in-spirit life—or about someone else who lived such a life, a person who served as a role model for you.

 

Next, define what Jesus meant by “kingdom of heaven” and show what that looks like in the lives of those who are poor in spirit. And then, in good memoir form, conclude by explaining how living according to that verse shaped you into a different person.

 

And then begin writing about the second beatitude. If you continue writing, using the rest of those verses as chapter titles, you can write a whole memoir!

 

 

A good structure can be your friend, your helper.

 

It holds your story together.

 

And it helps readers embrace your messages and lessons.

 

Jon Franklin points out that your memoir, like all quality stories, can teach readers:  “. . . The deeper satisfaction comes when the reader learns with the character [that’s you, the writer]. The reader, like the character, thus becomes a better and wiser person.” (Writing for Story)

 

And that’s what you want, right?

 

Dedicate time to choosing a good structure for your memoir.

Your readers will thank you.

 

Back to Basics: Are you paralyzed by the thought of writing your memoir?

 

“Most people embarking on writing a memoir are paralyzed by the size of the task,” writes William Zinsser.

 

“Where to start? Where to stop? How to shape the story?

 

“The past looms over them in a thousand fragments, defying them to impose on it some kind of order.

 

“Because of that anxiety, many memoirs linger for years half written, or never written at all.” (William Zinsser, How to Write a Memoir)

 

Does that describe you?

If so, take a deep breath.

Let me offer you some help.

 

I recommend that you begin by coming up with a structure for your memoir.

 

“The structure is the framework you write into,

your security blanket, your assurance that all your hard work

will result in a completed manuscript.”

(Priscilla Long, The Writer’s Portable Mentor)

 

When we talk about structuring your memoir, then, we’re talking about its organization. You’ll need to determine the best sequence of events.

 

Remember our earlier post about story arc? Click on Your memoir’s all-important story arc and Your memoir’s middle and end.

 

To jog your memory, let’s review a story arc, as well as the basics of story:

 

Memoirs read like novels (but unlike novels, they are true accounts). Jon Franklin (Writing for Story) explains: “A story consists of a sequence of actions that occur when a sympathetic character encounters a complicating situation that he confronts and solves.”

Franklin says, in other words, that a quality story “will consist of a real person who is confronted with a significant problem, who struggles diligently to solve that problem, and who ultimately succeeds—and in doing so becomes a different character.”

Dr. Linda Joy Myers says it this way: “The main character . . . —in a memoir it’s you!—is changed significantly by events, actions, decisions, and epiphanies. The growth and change of the main character is imperative in any story, and is the primary reason a memoir is written—to show the arc of character change from beginning to end.”

 

The story arc is like a thread, a path from beginning to end, making clear that character change.

 

Okay, back to your memoir’s structure:

 

I recommend that you tell your story chronologically—with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s straightforward: Arrange chapters according to date. That will be your structure.

 

With that in mind, let’s talk about flashbacks.

 

Tiffany Yates Martin offers this succinct definition of flashbacks: “. . . [S]eparate, self-contained scenes that serve to fill in essential backstory. . . . [They are] events . . . that happened before the events of the current story. . . .”

 

So how, specifically, could a flashback work in your memoir?

 

Two ways.

 

The first way: Some memoirists, even though writing a chronological account, begin their books with a flashback.

Here’s how that works: Place a compelling segment of your story in Chapter 1 (or perhaps in the first part of Chapter 1)—something intriguing or mysterious that will hook your readers. Something riveting or gripping.

 

After you’ve sufficiently developed that attention-getting opening, flashback to what led up to that experience—to where and how it all got started.

 

Note:

Often writers signal to readers

that they’re entering a flashback scene

by using the word “had.”

 

Here’s an example from my friend Shel Arensen, who was a college kid at the time, trying to get home for Christmas. Notice the word “had” in the sixth paragraph. That signaled to readers that the paragraph was a flashback—he was offering readers some background info.

 

Alone in Amsterdam, by Shel Arensen

 

I opened my eyes, suddenly awake. An eerie sense of uneasiness crept over me. Had I heard someone moving in the room? It was too dark to see. Then I heard the door click.

 

I sat upright in bed, straining to see who might have invaded the barracks-style hostel room where I was staying in Amsterdam, Holland. I sat perfectly still, hardly breathing, for several minutes. No one else stirred.

 

“I must have been imagining things,” I told myself. . . .

 

I decided to lie on my stomach. . . . When I turned over, I noticed what was wrong!

 

My pants, hanging on the wall near my bed, were twisted, and the lining of my pocket was hanging out. . . . I reached for my wallet. It was gone!

 

My misfortunes had started the day before when I arrived at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. I was to make connections there for Kenya, where my missionary parents lived.

 

“I’m sorry,” the voice of the ticket agent had grated in my ears, “but tonight’s flight to Nairobi is full. We can’t take any more passengers. . . . I will confirm your ticket for the next plane to Nairobi.”

 

“When will that be?” I questioned.

 

“Next Thursday—Christmas Day. Here’s your ticket. Enjoy Amsterdam. Who’s next in line, please?”

 

. . . Stunned and bewildered, I wandered over to a bench to collect my thoughts. . . .

It was Sunday night. . . . Now I would be unable to leave Amsterdam until Christmas—four days later. . . .

 

Did you notice the word “had” in the fifth paragraph? Using the word “had” in your manuscript will alert your readers that you’re going to take them back in time and offer significant information.

Here’s the second way of using flashbacks: While writing a chronological account, you can insert flashbacks throughout your memoir.

In other words, at key places you’ll interrupt the chronological order by flashing back to something that happened earlier—because you want to explain something to readers about that.

 

Here’s an example of a brief flashback from my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir. I was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat next to the pilot, Roland, in a small plane in the skies over South America. 

 

Dipping low, three or four seconds from touchdown, the wing on my side catapulted into the air and we veered to the left, the lopsided plane convulsing, engines roaring. Red lights flashed in the cockpit. A buzzer bawled somewhere. Roland jerked levers and slapped switches and punched buttons.

 

Dear God! I prayed, but I couldn’t say more. I couldn’t breathe. Of all the potential dangers I’d worried about—kidnapping, murder, drug cartel and guerrilla activity—I’d never imagined a plane crash.

 

Because our pilots often flew into the riskiest places on earth, they had been trained to have the engines at full throttle when approaching an airstrip in case they had to abort the landing. Grazing animals, curious children, or downed trees were common reasons to abort. Some landing strips clung to mountainsides and others were dangerously short. And sometimes armed insurgents swarmed remote airstrips. All were good reasons to be revved up at full throttle and ready to liff back into the air.

 

So, when that wicked horizontal wind shear jerked the plane vertical and tried to smash us to the ground, Roland wasn’t about to let that happen. His extensive training kicked in and he yanked the plane, vibrating and throbbing, into a steep climb heavenward.

 

After a brutal thirty seconds or so, Roland leveled the plane and it stopped trembling. “Whew,” he wheezed, sucking in a breath. “That was a sharp side wind. It blew in from nowhere.”

 

Notice the word “had” in the third paragraph. That’s how I pointed toward the upcoming flashback.

 

Here are phrases that could give you ideas for announcing you’re taking readers into a flashback:

 

“Before I had been invited on the trip. . . .”

“The year before, she had. . . .”

“Seven weeks earlier we had. . . .”

 

Question: Did you notice where I transitioned out of the flashback? It began with “So, when that wicked horizontal wind. . . .” With that phrase, I alerted readers that we were transitioning out of the flashback and returning to the chronological story.

 

That’s what you’ll want to do, too. Toward the end of your flashback, make it clear you’re transitioning out of it. Avoid confusing your readers: Write your way back to the scene you and the reader were in before you began your flashback, and then continue the chronological order of events.

 

Flashbacks can be very effective, but they’re not easy to pull off well. After all, you’re interrupting the reader’s involvement in your story.

 

Your job is to take readers back in time with you, and then smoothly, gracefully invite them to re-enter the main flow of the story.

 

Your desired outcome is

to hand your readers a coherent,

organized, satisfying memoir.

 

So set aside time to experiment with your memoir’s structure. Remember: You’ll no doubt revise your rough draft several times before you find the best structure.

 

You can do this! Yes, you can!