More tips for beginners: “Each photo has a prologue, a theme, and an afterword.”

 

A young man I know was looking at pictures his friend took of their childhood neighborhood thousands of miles away.

 

He held up just one. “Of all your pictures, this is the one that makes me tear up.” He went on to tell a whole story related to that one picture.

 

Just one photo—so powerful!

 

Notice the expanding memories my daughter, Karen, had upon looking at a picture taken when she was age four, sitting on a porch with friends:

 

“I remember that day, and it looks as fun in the picture as I remember—the sweetness of childhood, friendship, and ice cream. And the foggy beauty of contentment and excitement from long ago. I remember the color of the floor inside, the voices of moms, the sliding back door, and the thrilling smell of someone else’s bedroom and toys, and the tingling of imagination, and ‘Let’s pretend. . . .’”

 

A few years ago, my kids and I messaged back and forth about the photo below of my son, Matt, holding a piranha (piraña) he had just caught in South America.

 

Matt: “Nice. I still have the teeth from that very fish. Sweet hair, too.”

 

Karen: “I love so many things about this photo.”

Mom: “Me, too, Karen—a glimpse of the Branks’ house, the steep hill, the basketball hoop.”

 

Karen: “ . . . the hair, the facial expression, how un-steep the hill looks now. . . .”

 

Matt: “Hill still looks steep to me.”

 

Mom: “The sunburnt, blistered, peeling nose, the gigantic freckles.”

 

Using that one snapshot and the memories it stirred up, I wrote the following in my second memoir, Please God Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir:

 

The three boys [Matt, Glenny, and Tommy] went fishing, too, catching pirañas and barracudas. One day Matt came home with a piraña on a line dangling from his hand—a piraña more than ten inches long. A dead piraña. “Let me take a picture,” I called, running for my camera.

 

Then Tommy and Glenny’s dad, George, moseyed over to inspect the prize. “Ah,” he smiled. And paused. Did I catch a hint of a gasp?

 

“Those teeth are sharp enough,” George said, “and those jaws powerful enough, to slice off a man’s finger with just one bite.”

 

And suddenly I looked at my son, and myself, through different eyes. What kind of mother would let her child do such a dangerous thing? I tried not to make a scene, but I couldn’t help glancing at Matt’s fingers. They were all there. I could only pray silently, Thank you, God, for keeping my boy safe.

 

But Tommy, George, and Glenny took it all in stride. “Now Matt,” Tommy said, “cut off its head and bury it in the dirt. Come back in a day or two. Only the jaws and teeth will be left—ants will eat everything else. You’ll have a great souvenir.”

 

Tommy turned to me. “You can fry that fish for dinner. It’ll have lots of bones, though.” We did, and it did. But that was okay. The memories were worth it. All these years later, Matt still shows those razor-sharp teeth and jaws to his daughters and nephews.

 

When you look at photos, roll back the layers beneath the event and the people. Go high. Go wide. Keep in mind what Julie Silander says:

 

“As we crack open the dusty albums of our memories, we take a few minutes to stroll through the snapshots that comprise our lives. Each picture has a story. A prologue, a theme, and an afterword.”

 

Julie also finds words for what you and I know so well but might not want to admit: “We would like the smiling snapshots to represent the total picture of who we are. Yet there is more….”

 

How true.

 

While you read what Julie says next, think of a specific photo related to your memoir. Better yet, hold it in your hand while you read:

 

“Veiled behind the surface, there is always a deeper story. The argument that happened hours (or minutes) before the picture was taken, the deeper ache just below the surface of the smile, the unexpected turn of events that was to come just around the corner.”

 

What is your photo’s prologue?

 

What is its theme?

 

What is its afterword?

 

What is the deeper story that pops out of your photo?

 

Give yourself plenty of time 

to ponder that deeper story and,

when you discover it, put it in writing!

 

Back to Basics: Who are the significant people in your life?

 

Think about an individual who made a significant impact on your life—someone who changed you, whose life still ripples through yours today even if you live far apart, or even if that person has died:

• A soldier
• Fireman
• Parent
• Grandparent
• Aunt or uncle or cousin
• Preacher
• Teacher
• Singer
• Supervisor
• Janitor
• Missionary
• Neighbor
• Doctor
• Store clerk
• Professor
• Farmer
• Policeman
• Classmate
• Teammate
• College roommate

 

What, specifically, did she do that impacted your life?

What words did he say that made all the difference?

What good example did she live which inspired you to live in the same way?

How did his choices give you the courage to shape yours?

How different could your life have turned out without that person’s involvement?

 

You’ll want to include some of these people in your memoir.

 

Memoirist Kathy Pooler (who recently passed away) reminded us: “Hindsight seems to bring about new clarity and wisdom,” so take time—make time—to seek clarity and wisdom to discern how God brought people into your life and made you who you are today.

 

You might not have recognized, back then, 

the significance of that person’s mark on your life, 

so dig deep into your memory.

 

Note the ways God used them to protect you, give you hope, maybe redirect you, and strengthen your faith.

 

Start writing even before you have remembered everything,

even before you know where your story is going,

or how it will end.

 

Why?

 

Because much more hides within your experience than you realize right now. Writing leads to discovery. Roger Housden says it this way:

 

“[A]s much as we think we know about our story, there is far more waiting to surprise us when our own words hit the page.”

 

So, write your stories!

 

Write them not as a hobby,

but as a ministry to your family and friends

—and even to strangers.

 

Your kids and grandkids and great-grands—and all your readers—need to know about the people who invested in you and guided you—and probably even kept you from doing something stupid.

 

Just think: Your stories could have a life-changing impact on your readers, passing the original blessings on to future generations.

 

“There are generations yet unborn

whose very lives will be shifted and shaped

by the moves you make and the actions you take today. . . .”

(Andy Andrews, The Butterfly Effect)

 

Come back next week: I’ll offer specifics to help you write about key people in your life.

 

YOUR WORST CHRISTMAS

 

We’re going to take a mini-break from our Back to Basics for newcomers and instead, we’ll discuss CHRISTMAS! But with a twist. . . .

 

Maybe you recall a Christmas that was simply awful—a time you were heartbroken, or homeless, or broke, or far from home, or jilted, or frightened, or sick—and your future looked bleak.

 

You remember it as the worst Christmas ever.

 

But I invite you to think again.

 

Writing a memoir can be such a blessed project. Memoir requires taking long, deep looks at the past. Memoir involves pondering, rethinking, unearthing, and finding gems we might not have known were there.

 

Sometimes what seems to be our biggest disaster

can turn out to be a blessing—

one we couldn’t have received without the difficulty.

 

Sometimes we think a calamity will destroy us, but God works in the midst of our situations and, in the way only He can do it, He turns everything inside out and upside down and—instead of destroying us—it makes us stronger and better.

 

Failures. Tangled messes. Catastrophes. Tragedies. Conflicts. Blows. Adversity. Upheavals. Disasters. Setbacks. Unwelcome surprises.

 

God can use our deep disappointments to

• get our attention,
• shake us up a little,
• clear our heads,
• help us see we were putting our hope in something we shouldn’t,
• open new doors for us,
• give us new perspectives,
• tenderize our souls,
• give us fresh starts.

 

God can do all that.

 

That’s what Romans 8:28 is about:  “God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purposes for them” (NLT).

 

A long, long time ago, H.C. Trumbull told this story:

 

“The floods washed away home and mill, all the poor man had in the world. But as he stood on the scene of his loss, after the water had subsided, brokenhearted and discouraged, he saw something shining in the bank which the waters had washed bare. ‘It looks like gold,’ he said. It was gold. The flood which had beggared him made him rich. So it is ofttimes in life.” (Quoted by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, Streams in the Desert, January 20 selection.)

 

When turn-arounds and relief and solutions

eventually come our way, it’s so easy to snatch them,

run with them, and never look back.

 

We too easily fail to recognize God’s intervention

on our behalf, and we pay too little attention

to the good He has brought to us

out of our hardships.

 

Take time—make time—to dig through the dirt and ashes

of what you thought was your most disastrous Christmas,

and mine those bits of gold.

 

Search for evidence of God’s healing, new directions He offered you, new friends, and new hope.

 

Pinpoint the ways He strengthened your faith for the future.

 

Recognize these were all part of God’s unique plan for you and your life.

 

Gather those discoveries 

and write stories in your memoir 

that detail the ways God was with you 

n the midst of your worst Christmas ever.

 

Write stories about the way He took a disaster and turned it into something good—blessings you couldn’t have received without that difficulty. Instead of destroying you, it made you stronger and better.

 

If you’ll make time to do that, you can receive heaps of blessings.

 

But it doesn’t end there. Your readers can benefit, too.

 

Take in what Jeff Goins said,

 

“At times, you will hold the keys to another’s prison. . . . 

when you write from the heart, 

your pain will become someone else’s healing balm.”

 

Find healing through the process of writing your memoir

 

If you’re just starting to write your memoir, I have important advice for you.

 

Don’t do what a friend of mine did. When he began his memoir, he started by writing about the most traumatic year of his life. Whoa!

 

I’ve seen other people begin by writing super-painful stuff, too, only to become overwhelmed all over again with the devastation—and soon they gave up writing altogether. Don’t let that happen to you!

 

Please hear this: Begin your memoir by writing your easy stories—the happy stories, the funny incidents, the fascinating experiences. That way you can ease your way into both writing and the reflecting that memoir is.

 

My heart wants you to fall in love with

remembering

and pondering

and discovering all the good stuff you didn’t recognize in the past,

and with making sense of what used to mystify you,

and with writing

            and choosing just the right words

                        to fashion your story as a gift for others to read.

 

Keep in mind that you don’t need to write your chapters/vignettes in the same order they will appear in your finished memoir. Write them in any order that’s easiest for you. Later you can organize them in the best way.

 

For now, give yourself permission to start with easy stories. Tackle your hard stories later.

 

Also, keep this in mind: Even if you’re not physically putting your painful story into words (with pen and ink or on a computer screen), you are working on the story. I can’t explain how that works but, behind the scenes, your heart and brain are working on how to write your troubling story. 

 

So, let your heartache marinate for a few more weeks or months. One day you’ll be vacuuming the car, or playing catch with your grandson, or folding laundry when out of the blue, your heart and brain will speak to you (or maybe it’ll be God who speaks to you—I’d like to think it’s Him), and that voice will offer insights into your hurtful experience. Listen, and jot down notes to yourself: You’ll be mining treasures. Later you can use those notes to compose your difficult story’s rough draft. 

Remember this, too: Your rough draft is for your eyes only.  Write it all—the seared, charred, blistered parts, the questions you never had the courage to ask aloud, the doubts you never admitted before, the anger you kept bottled up.

Work out the pain—

work through the pain—

by writing with God beside you.

Wrestle with God

and with yourself

as you write.

Go ahead and cry.

Why?

Because God can bring healing

through the process of writing.

 

And be gentle with yourself, extend grace to yourself: Reliving those emotions and writing those scenes and conversations can be overwhelming.

 

I know of no anguish-free way to get through that writing process, but I can encourage you with this:

 

Write your story as a prayer to God

and He can use the process of writing

to help you make sense of events that

knocked the air out of you,

left you broken,

confused,

weary,

hopeless—

maybe even paralyzed—

and He can help you work through your grief.

 

If you’ll give it the needed time and if you’ll peel back enough layers and dig deep enough, writing your stories can lead to new insights, to answers that too long evaded you, and to resolution—to getting un-stuck so you can move on to healing and forgiveness and peace and hope for the future. Writing your story changes you.  

If you stick with it, at some point you'll find the most profound, redeeming part of writing your story:

• You'll discover that God was beside you all the while, bringing you people and opportunities and Bible verses and Bible studies and sermons, and working out His good plans—many details you probably didn't recognize in the midst of the incident, or saw only dimly, and
• you'll also discern how far you've come, how much you've healed.
• That, in turn, makes you overflow with gratitude toward God,
• and that solidifies your relationship with Him.

Mick Silva says it this way: “I’ve discovered that . . . protecting and preserving our stories is about discovering God’s story.” I call that your “God-and-you story.”

 

In that way, writing a memoir can be a journey of personal healing—even if you originally set out to write it for others.

 

And this is important: At some point, you’ll revise your manuscript. Your first draft, that for-your-eyes-only draft, will remain what it is. But use that rough material to craft a rewrite of your memoir for others to read.

 

Let God transform you through writing that painful first draft, and afterward, your God-and-you story can help others heal.

 

P. S. Did you read Tuesday’s post about Kathy Pooler’s experience writing her memoir? If you missed it, click on “Unveiling painful truths and moving to the other side of pain.” Since most memoirists must write about something painful, you don’t want to miss Kathy’s wisdom and encouragement.

 

 

How one old photo led me to write a memoir

 

Last week we considered photos—rich resources to help you write your memoir. I mentioned that:

 

. . . years ago, I put photos

in three-ring binders

—photos from three years

our family spent in South America

when my kids were ages five and almost seven.

 

I also typed stories from letters

I’d sent my parents,

adding them to the photos.

 

I thought the story was finished

—until one day I noticed something

in one picture,

something I hadn’t noticed before.

 

It was a photo I took on Day One at our new home in South America, and it’s always been one of my favorites. I’d framed it and it was hanging on the wall. A magnet held another copy on my refrigerator. I had made copies of that picture and passed them out during speaking engagements.

 

But that day, long after I’d assembled the scrapbook, I saw in that photo something deeper and broader. The earth lurched when I recognized it, and I asked myself,

 

Why did you never notice this before?

 

After pondering that question, this became clear: In the letters to my parents, I never told them about the dangers, the scary stuff.

 

That meant the narrative in the scrapbook, based on those letters, was a list of selected facts, just the everyday surface stuff.

 

And with that realization,

I knew my story was incomplete—

not yet finished.

 

That photo foreshadowed stories that made ongoing international news—events that touched our family and friends and changed many lives forever.

 

I had a bigger, deeper, richer story to write—a story about hostility from guerrilla groups—their bombings, ongoing threats of violence, kidnappings, and murders—and what God and courageous people did in the midst of it all.

 

So I got to work, and those stories

soon resulted in my published memoir,

Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go:

A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.

 

Enough about my discovery and my story. What about you?

 

Did you examine one or more key photos related to your story?

 

Reread last week’s post, Photos: A rich resource for writing your memoir, and peel back layers, asking yourself:

• What is the deeper story behind this photo?
• What is the deeper story about the people in the photo?
• What is the bigger issue?
• Does the photo symbolize or capture a theme in my memoir?
• Does it contain a secret or solve a mystery? If so, do others now need to know about it? (If someone would benefit—if that would help heal an old wound, right a wrong, or bring forgiveness or hope—think and pray about revealing it.)

 

Maybe you still haven’t pinned down the real meaning, the central idea or message of your memoir. Perhaps a photo will help you discover it.

 

For a few days,

think about a key photo

and what it represents.

 

It might hold more significance

than you now realize.

 

In penning your memoir, don’t “discount simple writing”

 

Last week we considered how important it is for you to communicate clearly with your readers. (If you missed it, click on Put yourself in your readers' shoes.)

This week I have tips for you on how to accomplish that.

 

Years ago, when I studied journalism, instructors taught us to aim our writing at eighth graders—that is, to write material that eighth-grade students can easily understand.

Recently I saw the same advice so it must still be the best practice.

 

What’s true for journalists is true for memoirists: Aim at an eighth-grade audience.

 

Ken Follett, Welsh author, says his goal is to make his prose “utterly easy to understand.” He calls it “transparent prose.”

 

“I’ve failed dreadfully,” Follet says, “if you have to read a sentence twice to figure out what I meant.”

 

Write clearly.

Concisely.

Transparently.

Simply.

 

Shane Snow says it this way: “We shouldn’t discount simple writing, but instead embrace it. . . .

 

“We should aim to reduce complexity in our writing as much as possible.

 

“We won’t lose credibility in doing so,” Shane says. “Our readers will comprehend and retain our ideas more reliably. And we’ll have a higher likelihood of reaching more people.”

 

“Writing text that can be understood by as many people as possible seems like an obvious best practice,” write Rebecca Monteleone and Jamie Brew. “But . . .

 

“ . . . from news media to legal guidance to academic research, the way we write often creates barriers to who can read it. Plain language—a style of writing that uses simplified sentences, everyday vocabulary, and clear structure—aims to remove those barriers.” (Read more at “What Makes Writing More Readable?”)

 

Read your manuscript aloud.

Listen for words or sentences or paragraphs

that could confuse readers.

 

Rewrite them,

fixing anything that’s not precise.

Make your writing easy to understand.

Your readers will thank you.

 

Come back next week. We’ll look at additional ways to write your memoir with clarity.

 

Tuesday Tidbit: Put yourself in your readers’ shoes

 

A few days ago, I was reading an award-winning book when I got stuck on a paragraph—only two sentences long—that made no sense.

 

I stopped and re-read that paragraph, but I still couldn’t figure out what it meant.

 

I read it again, and again, but it still made no sense.

 

On about my fifth try, I realized the word “him” was referring to a different male than I originally thought. Also, the author had used a noun that had several definitions, and I had interpreted the word in a different way than she intended.

 

The experience reminded me how important it is for us memoirists to put ourselves in our readers’ shoes.

 

Because . . .

 

“It has long been a guiding principle of writing that,

if there is any possible way

for readers to misread

and misinterpret

what you write,

they will.

The purpose of laborious

and tedious editing

is to make the writing so precise

that it cannot be misread

and misinterpreted.”

(Kendall Haven)

 

That means that, for the sake of your readers, you, the writer, must, clarify.

 

Choose words carefully.

 

Give specific details.

 

Be accurate. Unambiguous.

 

Explain.

 

Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.

 

Ask yourself, “Will they understand my story? Is it clear?”

 

Refine your story. Enhance it. Polish it. Make it shine.

 

And enjoy your writing!

There you have it, your Tuesday Tidbit.

 

No one wants to stop reading to look up a word in a dictionary

 

“What does parsimonious mean?” my highly educated husband asked. Dave was reading Eisenhower in War and Peace, by Jean Edward Smith.

 

Parsimonious. I’d known of the word most of my life. It always reminded me of parsnips. But did I know what it meant?

 

Um . . . No, I didn’t. Neither did Dave, and we felt embarrassed.

 

I stood up, walked to my desk, and opened my thesaurus. Here’s what I read aloud to Dave:

 

not enough

retentive

mean

selfish

self-restrained

 

We were both still puzzled so I asked him to read me the sentence with parsimonious in it.

 

“Eisenhower . . . was parsimonious with the lives of the troops entrusted to his command. . . .”

 

Eisenhower was not enough with the lives of the troops?

Eisenhower was retentive with the lives of his troops?

Eisenhower was mean with the lives of his troops?

Eisenhower was selfish with the lives of his troops?

Eisenhower was self-restrained with the lives of his troops?

 

That last meaning, self-restrained, had potential, so I checked that out in the thesaurus: self-controlled, self-disciplined, restrained. Self-restraint also has to do with being frugal, temperate, not excessive, moderate, measured, limited.

 

We concluded Ike valued his troops’ lives and was frugal when it came to endangering them. He practiced self-restraint when it came to sending troops into harm’s way: He recognized the danger he could put them in but exercised restraint so no one would suffer or die unnecessarily. 

 

OK, that’s enough about parsimonious. My point is this: When you write your memoir, use words your readers will understand.

 

No one appreciates having to stand up, walk over to the bookshelf, take down the dictionary or thesaurus, and look up a word.

 

In fact, I suspect most readers simply won’t do it.

 

Your goal is to make it easy for everyone to read your memoir.

 

Many years ago, journalism instructors taught us to write for an eighth-grade audience. That’s not a typo. Eighth graders!

 

Recently I ran across that same advice.

 

And it’s good advice. It yields benefits:

 

“We shouldn’t discount simple writing,

but instead embrace it. . . .

We should aim to reduce complexity in our writing

as much as possible.

We won’t lose credibility in doing so.

Our readers will comprehend and retain

our ideas more reliably.

And we’ll have a higher likelihood

of reaching more people.”

Shane Snow,

“This Surprising Reading Level Analysis

Will Change the Way You Write” (emphasis mine)

 

You can still use interesting, expressive, musical, graphic, textured, dazzling words—words that zing—as long as they’re familiar to your readers, effective words like:

 

skedaddle

befuddle

jolly

jovial

harrumph

hooligan

ruffian

rascal

scaliwag

scoundrel

paunchy

tattered

merry

beguiling

spirited

whimsical

 

Dear William Zinsser wrote about the importance of choosing words: “Banality is the enemy of good writing. The challenge is to not write like everybody else.” Writers should avoid a word that’s merely serviceable—useful, practical—or dull, he said, and instead strive for freshness.

 

I jotted down a few simple yet vivid words penned by Zinsser in his Writing About Your Life:

 

a sea of codgers, codging the time away

a courtly man

a lofty wicker chair

he listened . . . with exquisite courtesy

a cultivated man

a rangy, easygoing man

a compact man

he had a scholar’s face: intelligent and quizzical

 

A word of caution: Use your dictionary and thesaurus wisely. Janice Hardy blogged about “an episode of Friends where the dumb-yet-lovable Joey wrote a letter of recommendation. To sound smart, he used the thesaurus and replaced all his ‘dumb’ words with ‘smart ones.’” Janice continued, “‘They’re warm, nice people with big hearts’ became ‘They’re humid, pre-possessing homo sapiens with full-sized aortic pumps.’”

 

So go ahead and use words with sparkle and pizzazz—just choose words that most people understand. 

 

Tuesday Tidbit: Your memoir’s all-important takeaways

 

People will read your memoir for its takeaways.

 

What’s a takeaway?

 

It’s a gem you unearthed during all your remembering and reflecting that’s so important in writing a memoir. (Be sure to read our earlier post, “Dig out the gems, in pieces if you must.”)

 

In examining what you unearthed, and in re-evaluating it, you gained clarity and wisdom, and that helped make sense of your life—which you offer to your readers.

 

Takeaways are what readers “take away” from your memoir. A takeaway is a meaningful sentence or two that speaks to something deep inside the reader.

 

He recognizes himself in your story. When he stumbles upon your takeaway, he will pause to think, to re-read the words, slowly. He might underline the passage. Or maybe highlight it. Or write notes in the margin. Your memoir’s takeaway offers him lessons he will carry with them after he’s read the last page and closed the back cover.

How do you, the writer,

discover a takeaway in your life’s story?

 

Think back. At some point,

you had an A-ha moment, and a light came on.

Puzzle pieces began falling into place.

You gained clarity.

You discovered a solution.

It was a turning point.

You were not the same person after that.

 

That’s good, that’s exciting.

Such discoveries can be defining moments for you,

life-changers—but go beyond that.

Share the benefits of that experience with your readers

by crafting a takeaway.

Offer them their own A-ha moment.

Offer them something of value.

 

In other words, in a concise way give words to the principle you learned—think of the takeaway as a precept, a saying, a guideline, an adage—something readers can live by, a principle that can be life-changing for them, too.

 

Use your takeaway to offer readers hope,

or wisdom,

or courage,

or laughter,

or a solution,

or a new way of living or loving.

 

Your takeaways, then, communicate to readers: “I know this is true because I have experienced it, I have lived it. It changed my life. Perhaps it will change your life, too.”

 

Come back next week when we’ll continue working on takeaways.

 

There you have it, your Tuesday Tidbit.