“Sentences are a little like purses. . . .”

 

After you’ve written a few chapters of your memoir, or even a few vignettes, reward yourself by taking a break—a productive break, one that will not delay progress on finishing your story.

 

How does that work?

 

Read what you’ve written with fresh eyes, your oldest writings first.

 

Read aloud. Even more helpful, I find, is using the “read aloud” feature on my computer. Your ears will catch what your mind skips over.

 

Today we’ll look at how to best fashion your sentences.

 

Specifically, scrutinize how your sentences read, how they flow, how they sound, and whether they make sense.

 

First, let’s acknowledge this:

“Very few sentences come out right the first time,

or even the second or third time.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

 

As you write, believe this:

rewriting is not punishment.

Even pros and experienced writers

revise their sentences numerous times.

 

For the sake of your readers, commit to crafting good sentences. Why? First, you want readers to enjoy your story and, second, you also want them to understand your message. 

 

“Just as there are arts of weaving and fly-fishing and dancing, so there are arts of sentence making,” write Collette and Johnson, authors of Finding Common Ground, A Guide to Personal, Professional, and Public Writing.

 

“. . . Writing is a partnership with the reader. . . . The way you put your stories together counts a good deal toward how your reader will understand what you say.

 

“You can . . . arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them to suit particular purposes.

 

“The writer shapes the sentence to indicate how readers should construe the meaning . . . . Building a sentence, then, is a way of defining and specifying meaning, of focusing a reader’s attention. . . .” (Finding Common Ground)

 

As you begin to evaluate your sentences, Bill Roorback points out that “sentences are a little like purses: They come in various sizes and can hold a little or a lot.” (Writing Life Stories)

 

So, let’s start by looking at those of the smaller size:

 

Short Sentences:

 

“ . . . In artful prose, [sentence] length is controlled and varied. Some stylists write short sentences to strike a note of urgency.” (Joseph F. Williams, Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

 

“ . . . Short sharp sentences increase tension in a scene.” (Lynda  R. Young)

 

For example, here’s how Kristen Welch writes short sentences to express tension and urgency:

 

“She came to us alone, with a baby she didn’t want stirring in her womb.

 

“Orphaned at a young age, she wandered this earth unloved and unwanted.

 

“Charity came to us broken, detached, angry.

 

“Outwardly she pushed others away, isolating herself through pain, distancing her heart from love.

 

“But we loved her anyway. We set firm boundaries and we loved. We prayed. We fasted. We begged God to draw her close. We shed so many tears over this child having a child.

 

“We feared for her unborn son. How would this detached girl attach to a baby she never wanted?

 

“He was born to an angry mother. She didn’t want him.

 

“And we didn’t know what to do. . . .” (Kristen Welch, We Are THAT family)

 

 

Sentence Fragments:

 

Consider writing short sentences here and there in your vignettes, but also think about writing sentence fragments—incomplete sentences and thoughts.

 

Grammatically, sentence fragments are incorrect, but “There are occasions when a sentence fragment can be stylistically effective, exactly what you want and no more. [For example] ‘Harrison Ford has said that he would be more than willing to take on another Indiana Jones project. In a New York Minute.’ As long as you are clearly in control of the situation, this is permissible, but [doing so] depends on the circumstances.” (CCC Foundation)

 

Breaking the rules occasionally with sentence fragments can add punch to your writing. Or sizzle. Or grief.

 

 

Next week we’ll look at long sentences

but for now, examine your rough drafts

and look for sentences that need spiffing up.

 

Where can you write “quick, breathless utterances” (Williams),

like Kristen Welch did, to create tension,

urgency, drama, or emotion?

 

Where might sentence fragments

work even more effectively than complete sentences?

 

And throughout, ask yourself:

Will readers understand

what I’m trying to get across?

Have I written each sentence clearly?

 

And remember, rewriting is not punishment.

(Smile!)

Back to Basics: Beat back the past with grace and tell your readers “We are not victims”

It used to be that people didn’t include scandalous stuff in their memoirs. We lived in a modest, dignified culture. 

 

But then things changed. Memoirists tossed out gentility and decorum, and our society entered into what William Zinsser calls “The memoir-crazed 1990s.” 

 

It was a time, he says, when people disclosed shocking information, indulged in self-pity, and sought revenge, a time when “no remembered episode was too squalid, no family too dysfunctional, to be trotted out for the titillation of the masses.”

 

But, he points out, those types of memoirs didn’t stand the test of time. (Hooray!)

 

That era did have a few good memoirs, though.

 

“The memoirs we do remember from the 1990s,” says Zinsser, “are the ones that were written with love and forgiveness, like Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club, Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, Tobias Wolff’s This Boy’s Life, and Pete Hamill’s A Drinking Life.” (From “How to Write a Memoir” in The American Scholar.)

 

“Anyone might think” he says, “the domestic chaos and alcoholism and violence that enveloped those writers when they were young would have long since hardened the heart.” 

 

And yet they did not have hardened hearts. For example, “The marvel of Frank McCourt’s childhood is that he survived it. . . . The second marvel is that he was able to triumph over it in Angela’s Ashes, beating back the past with grace and humor and with the power of language.”

 

Each of those four authors “look back with compassion. . . .  These books…were written with love. They elevate the pain of the past with forgiveness, arriving at a larger truth about families in various stages of brokenness.  . . .

 

“There’s no self-pity, no whining, no hunger for revenge; the authors are as honest about their young selves as they are about the sins of their elders. (Writing About Your Life)  (If you missed it, be sure to read Don’t start writing your memoir until . . .)

 

“We are not victims, they want us to know. . . . We have endured to tell the story without judgment and to get on with our  lives. . . .”  (Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

 

If you’re writing about pain caused by others, be cautious and honest about your motives.

 

Avoid writing:

• to get revenge, settle the score, or retaliate,
• to humiliate a person, company, or organization,
• to get readers to pity you,
• to get readers to take sides with you, or
• to indulge in self-pity.

 

Examine your heart and if you find even traces of writing for any of those reasons, stop! That’s not what memoir is about.

 

Extend to others the same forgiveness, grace, and mercy God has extended to you. (See last week’s post, How do you write about your family’s baggage?)

 

Let the following dwell in your heart and mind as you write:

 

“At our best,

memoirists hope it is silence we are breaking,

and not another person.”

(Kelly McMasters)

 

Zinsser counsels us:

 

“If you use memoir to look for your own humanity

and the humanity of the people who crossed your life,

however much pain they caused you,

readers will connect with your journey.

 

What they won’t connect with is whining.

Dispose of that anger somewhere else.”

 

That somewhere else could be in your journal—for your eyes only—or in a fictionalized version of your story.

 

Or it could be a first draft. Dr. Linda Joy Myers advises,

 

“Write your first draft as a healing draft.

Get out what you need to say.

Make it bold and real.

Then stand back and think about

how you want to revise it for publication.”

(Will My Family Get Angry About My Memoir?)

 

In that rough draft, write about the injustices, mistreatment, hurt feelings, anger, scars, and tears. Write about destroyed dreams, confusion, hopelessness.

 

Write it all. Write it as a prayer.

Write until you know God has heard you.

Write it as a way of asking Him

to help you forgive and move on.

 

Since that process usually takes time, set aside your private writing (rough draft) for a week or a month or a year. Listen for God, let Him work in your heart and mind.

 

Your goal is to move from anger to forgiveness, from pain to compassion. When you succeed in that, you can throw away that rough draft, or at least commit to keeping it private.

 

And then rewrite your memoir.

 

Rewrite deliberately to “elevate the pain of the past with forgiveness.”

 

Rewrite with integrity.

Delete the wallowing.

Write not as a wounded victim,

but as one who has triumphed,

as one who has forgiven, healed,

and moved forward in a good way.

 

Write like Frank McCourt did:

Beat back the past with grace—

and maybe even with a little humor.

 

  

Back to Basics: Knowing the unique features of memoir will help you tell your story

 

Since we have new people joining us here at SM 101, we’re reviewing (1) what a memoir is, and (2) how best to write one. (Check out two recent blog posts: Back to Basics: What is a Memoir? and Back to Basics: Why should you write your memoir?)

 

A memoir is so much more than spinning yarns and telling tales.

 

That  means you need to understand what a memoir is

in order to

write it in the most effective way.

 

Below you’ll find some gems—some nitty-gritty basics—to help you get started, to help you keep writing, and to publish your memoir.

 

 

“Rather than simply telling a story from her life,

the memoirist both tells the story

and muses upon it,

trying to unravel what it means

in light of her current knowledge. . . .

Memoir includes retrospection as an essential part of the story.

Your reader . . . [is] interested in how you now, 

looking back on it, understand it.”

(Judith Barrington, Writing the Memoir)

 

 

“Remember this when you write about your own life.

Your biggest stories will often have less to do with their subject

than with their significance:

not what you did in a certain situation,

but how that situation affected you.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

 

 

“Memoir is not about what you did.

Memoir is about what you did with it.”

(Marion Roach Smith)

 

 

“Memoir is about something you know

after something you’ve been through.”

(Marion Roach Smith)

 

 

Writing a memoir “offers . . . the opportunity to recall, assess,

reflect, and find meaning. . . . Most memoir writing experts agree

that the primary importance of memoir writing

is the resolution, clarity, healing and dignity gained by the author. . . .

Writing memoir is an adventure in attitudes,

with unexpected personal revelations, discoveries and resolution.”

(Sharon Lippincott, author of The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing,

and two memoirs)

 

 

“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.”

(Dr. Linda Joy Myers)

 

 

Take in these significant quotes about memoirs. Ponder them in relation to the stories you want to include in your memoir.

 

The better you understand and apply the above, the better your writing experience—and your finished memoir—will be.

 

Come back next week for more inspiration on writing your memoir!

 

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. 

 

“Sentences are a little like purses. . . .”

Before you publish your memoir, analyze the quality of your writing. You’ll probably need to polish your skills in the craft and art of writing. To help you with that task, today we’ll look at how to fashion your sentences.

First, let’s acknowledge this:

“Very few sentences come out right the first time,

or even the second or third time.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

As you write, believe this:

rewriting is not punishment.

Even pros and experienced writers

revise their sentences numerous times.

For the sake of your readers, commit to crafting good sentences. Why? First, you want readers to enjoy your story and, second, you also want them to understand your message. 

“Just as there are arts of weaving and fly-fishing and dancing, so there are arts of sentence making,” write Collette and Johnson, authors of Finding Common Ground, A Guide to Personal, Professional, and Public Writing.

“. . . Writing is a partnership with the reader. . . . The way you put your stories together counts a good deal toward how your reader will understand what you say.

“You can . . . arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them to suit particular purposes.

“The writer shapes the sentence to indicate how readers should construe the meaning . . . . Building a sentence, then, is a way of defining and specifying meaning, of focusing a reader’s attention. . . .” (Collette and Johnson, Finding Common Ground; emphasis mine)

As we begin to scrutinize sentences, Bill Roorback points out that “sentences are a little like purses: They come in various sizes and can hold a little or a lot.” (Writing Life Stories)

So, let’s start by looking at those of the smaller size:

Short sentences:

“ . . . In artful prose, [sentence] length is controlled and varied. Some stylists write short sentences to strike a note of urgency.” (Joseph F. Williams, Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

“ . . . Short sharp sentences increase tension in a scene.” (Lynda R. Young)

For example, here’s how Kristen Welch writes short sentences to express tension and urgency:

“She came to us alone, with a baby she didn’t want stirring in her womb.

“Orphaned at a young age, she wandered this earth unloved and unwanted.

“Charity came to us broken, detached, angry.

“Outwardly she pushed others away, isolating herself through pain, distancing her heart from love.

“But we loved her anyway. We set firm boundaries and we loved. We prayed. We fasted. We begged God to draw her close. We shed so many tears over this child having a child.

“We feared for her unborn son. How would this detached girl attach to a baby she never wanted?

“He was born to an angry mother. She didn’t want him.

“And we didn’t know what to do. . . .” (Kristen Welch, We Are THAT family)

Sentence fragments:

Consider writing short sentences here and there in your vignettes, but also think about writing sentence fragments—incomplete sentences and thoughts.

Grammatically, sentence fragments are incorrect, but “There are occasions when a sentence fragment can be stylistically effective, exactly what you want and no more. ‘Harrison Ford has said that he would be more than willing to take on another Indiana Jones project. In a New York Minute.’ As long as you are clearly in control of the situation, this is permissible, but [doing so] depends on the circumstances.” (CCC Foundation, emphasis mine)

Breaking the rules occasionally with sentence fragments can add punch to your writing. Or sizzle. Or grief.

Next week we’ll look at long sentences

but for now, examine your rough drafts

and look for sentences that need a little spiffing up.

Where can you write “quick, breathless utterances” (Williams),

like Kristen Welch did, to create tension,

urgency, drama, or emotion?

Where might sentence fragments

work even more effectively than complete sentences?

And throughout, ask yourself:

Will readers understand

what I’m trying to get across?

Have I written each sentence clearly?

And remember, rewriting is not punishment.

(Smile!) 

“Beating back the past with grace . . . and with the power of language.”

Every human has experienced pain—pain caused by bullies, or unfaithful spouses, or flawed churches, or ill-equipped parents, or egotistical bosses, or cheating co-workers, or jealous siblings. The list could go on and on.

Such experiences shape people, define people. They can result in festering wounds for years. Sometimes people can’t get over the injustice of it all.

And many write memoirs about hurt and unfairness they’ve suffered.

It’s okay to write about such experiences

• if doing so helps you heal and
• if your goal is to help others heal from their own painful pasts.

But you must write your story with the correct perspective and honorable motives. 

William Zinsser, one of my dearest writing mentors, says this:

“The marvel of Frank McCourt’s childhood is that he survived it. . . . The second marvel is that he was able to triumph over it in Angela’s Ashes, beating back the past with grace and humor and with the power of language. Those same qualities are at the heart of all the good memoirs. . . .”

Zinsser mentions three such memoirs, A Drinking Life, by Pete Hamill, The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr, and This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff.

He continues, “Anyone might think the domestic chaos and alcoholism and violence that enveloped those writers when they were young would have long since hardened the heart. . . .  

“Yet they look back with compassion. . . .  These books . . . were written with love.

“They elevate the pain of the past with forgiveness, arriving at a larger truth about families in various stages of brokenness. There’s no self-pity, no whining, no hunger for revenge; the authors are as honest about their young selves as they are about the sins of their elders.

“We are not victims, they want us to know. . . .  We have endured to tell the story without judgment and to get on with our lives. . . .”

Zinsser offers advice to today’s memoirists writing about people who caused pain:

“If you must use memoir to look for your own humanity and the humanity of the people who crossed your life, however much pain they caused you, readers will connect with your journey.

“What they won’t connect with is whining. Dispose of that anger someplace else.

“Get your intention clear before you start and tell your story with integrity.” (Writing About Your Life)

Remember Romans 8:28: “We know that in everything God works for the good of those who love him” (NCV).

That verse reminds me of something Chuck Swindoll said many years ago, something along these lines: “God will not waste your suffering.” That fits with this Bible verse:

“I will not cause pain without allowing

something new to be born, says the Lord.” 

Isaiah 66:9 (NCV)

Chuck Swindoll elaborates on that: “Pain, when properly handled, can shape a life for greatness. History is replete with stories of those whose struggles and scars formed the foundation for remarkable achievements. In fact, it was because of their hardship they gained what they needed to achieve greatness.” (Chuck Swindoll, Insight for Today).

Read Isaiah 66:9 again, believing it is aimed directly at you: “I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born, says the Lord.”

Believe that God can use your pain and injustices

as preparation for exceptional feats and triumphs—

such as, among other life-changing things,

sharing your story in a memoir.

Let’s choose our attitude and our words carefully. “Rid yourselves of . . . anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language. . . ” (Colossians 3:8).

“Let your [words] be full of grace, seasoned with salt [a preservative]. . . ” (Colossians 4:6, NIV).

“Be gracious in your speech. The goal is to bring out the best in others . . . not put them down. . . ” (Colossians 4:6, The Message).

We read this in Henri Nouwen’s Bread for the Journey: “It is so important to choose words wisely. When we are boiling with anger and eager to throw bitter words at our opponents, it is better to remain silent. Words spoken [or written] in rage will make reconciliation very hard. Choosing life and not death, blessings and not curses [Deuteronomy 30:19], often starts by . . . choosing carefully the words that open the way to healing.”

Nouwen also writes: “Often we remain silent when we need to speak [or write]. Without words, it is hard to love well. When we say to [our loved ones] ‘I love you very much,’ . . . we choose to give life.

“It is not always easy to express our love directly in words. But whenever we do, we discover we have offered a blessing that will be long remembered. . . . A whole new blessed place can be opened up, a space where it is good to dwell. Indeed, words have the power to create life.”

Write a memoir full of love, honesty, and grace.

Write a memoir that shines light on not only your own darkness,

but also shines light on the darkness of others.

Offer readers hope and healing.

Offer words with the power to create life.

Tuesday Tidbit: Do you want to become a better storyteller?

If you want to grow in storytelling skills, start with dear William Zinsser's advice: 

Come back Thursday when we'll take an in-depth look at a memoir's setting, its sense of place.

There you have it, your Tuesday Tidbit.

Avoid writing for revenge

We suffer pain for various reasons—sometimes we bring it on ourselves, sometimes it’s no one’s fault, but other times it’s the fault of another person.

If we’re writing a memoir that includes pain caused by a person or organization, we need to be cautious about our motives. And honest about our motives.

As a memoirist, avoid writing for these reasons:

• to get revenge, settle the score, retaliate,
• to humiliate a person or organization,
• to get readers to pity you,
• to get readers to take sides with you, or
• to indulge in self-pity.

Examine your heart and if you find even traces of wanting to write for any of those reasons, stop!  That’s not what memoir is about.

I have two pieces of advice: (1) Go ahead and write everything, but write for your eyes only.  Write about the injustices, write about your mistreatment, hurt feelings, anger, scars, and tears. Write about destroyed dreams, confusion, hopelessness.

Write it all. Write it as a prayer. Write until you know God has heard you. Write it as a way of asking God to help you forgive and move on.

Because such resolution usually takes time, set aside your private writing for a week or a month or a year. Listen for God, let Him work in your heart and mind.

Your goal is to move from anger to forgiveness, from pain to compassion.

Read William Zinsser’s important words:

“The marvel of Frank McCourt’s childhood is that he survived it…. The second marvel is that he was able to triumph over it in [his memoir] Angela’s Ashes, beating back the past with grace and humor and with the power of language. Those same qualities are at the heart of all the good memoirs of the 1990s….”

Zinsser mentions three such memoirs, A Drinking Life, by Pete Hamill, The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr, and This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff.

He continues, “Anyone might think the domestic chaos and alcoholism and violence that enveloped those writers when they were young would have long since hardened the heart…. Yet they look back with compassion…. These books…were written with love. They elevate the pain of the past with forgiveness, arriving at a larger truth about families in various stages of brokenness. There’s no self-pity, no whining, no hunger for revenge; the authors are as honest about their young selves as they are about the sins of their elders. We are not victims, they want us to know…. We have endured to tell the story without judgment and to get on with our lives….”

Zinsser offers advice to today’s memoirists: “If you use memoir to look for your own humanity and the humanity of the people who crossed your life, however much pain they caused you, readers will connect with your journey. What they won’t connect with is whining. Dispose of that anger somewhere else. Get your intention clear before you start and tell your story with integrity.” (Writing About Your Life; emphasis mine)

When you can write that way—

when you can write with compassion 

and love and forgiveness, 

when you can write without self-pity or whining 

or revenge or being judgmental, 

 rewrite your rough draft. 

Strive to write like Frank McCourt: 

Write words full of grace, and maybe even a bit of humor.

This brings us to my other piece of advice: (2) Don’t let anyone read your manuscript until you have rewritten it.

Remember:

Your first draft was for you alone,

but later drafts are for your readers.

“Ursula K. Le Guin,

when dealing with painful subjects,

makes a distinction between ‘wallowing,’

which she says she writes but does not share publicly

and ‘bearing witness,’

which she does share.” 

(Judith Barrington, Writing the Memoir; emphasis mine)

So rewrite. Rewrite with integrity. Delete the wallowing. Instead, bear witness. Write not as a wounded victim, but as one who has triumphed, as one who has forgiven, healed, and moved forward in a good way.

Related posts:

“To live the pain with hope”

Writing yourself to the other side of pain 

What is the point of writing about the hardships of life?

Writing yourself to the other side of pain, continued