In Defense of Memoir

Irecently finished reading the ginormously successful Eat Pray Love. Did I lovethe book? No. Do I have to see the movie? Have I learned Italian? Am I buyingthe World Market line of products based on the story? No, no and no. But, saywhat you want about the book – love it or hate it – the problem is not that theauthor spends too much time talking about herself.  (A recent review of the movie claimed a bettertitle for the film would have been Me Me Me.)

After all, Eat Pray Love is a memoir and telling your own story is the verydefinition of memoir. It’s an autobiography. It’s supposed to be just about you. 

Unfortunately,most of the time you only hear about memoir when it’s sensational (“you mayhave been sexually abused by your father as a child, but I had a sexualrelationship with my dad as an adult”), written by celebrities (while we’re onthe subject, Mackenzie Phillips) or not true (thanks for that one James Frey).However, as a genre, it’s not sensationalism that drives memoir.

Iapologize in advance to anyone that thinks I’m talking down to them by thebasics I’m about to go over. I am not nearly a good enough writer to talk downto anyone. It’s just that I need to start at the beginning. After all, as LewisCarroll taught us, the beginning is a very good place to start.

Allgood writing must have tension – the phenomenon that happens when two seemingopposites co-exist. It’s one of the reasons mysteries, romances and sportsstories are so prevalent and popular; the tension there is easiest to find.Will the protagonist win or lose? Be rejected or find love? Live or die? Thelatter being the most obvious example of tension one could find and the mostuniversal – mortality. It’s hard to find a bigger gap than the differencebetween life and death, and it’s the tightrope all of humanity walks everysingle day. (Hey, I said I was going back to basics.)

Eachindividual memoir has its own tension, but a tension drives the genre as well.As a literary art form (and I do think it is one), here’s how it works: bydelving as completely as possible into one’s own individual psyche, one triesto discover some universal truth. The opposing forces? The lone individual and the restof the world. A piece and the whole.

Wemay enjoy reading them, but the best memoirs aren’t stories that focusprimarily on other people – be it your mother, father or significant other.(Not that these elements aren’t important to memoir, but let’s not confuse thecharacter with the relationship. The main character in memoir is the author,and relationships are vital because of what they reveal about the author.However, generally speaking, memoirs that focus too much on other characters doit out of fear — talk all about crazy mom so you won’t have to acknowledge thescary truth about yourself.)

Thegenre is defined by revelation and isn’t necessarily for the faint of heart.You may laugh at anecdotes, but they don't qualify as art without the revelation of atruth that applies to a larger audience than one.

Memoiris an exploration of the depths of self – that terrifying abyss that includesour inner most thoughts, fears and failings. It isn’t easy to write, and it canbe hard to read. It’s beautiful because in daring to look at those darkestparts of ourselves, we can discover a universal truth of human nature. Indaring to be so completely exposed, we uncover that we aren’t alone in these vulnerabilities.That, generally speaking, we all sing along to the same songs on the radio fora reason. We all crave acceptance and fear rejection. No one wants to bevulnerable but we all are. We need love, and we’ll do desperate, awful andoften hurtful things to get and/or keep it. We’re primarily selfish even thoughwe try to pretend we’re not, and we all want to peek behind the neighbors’curtains to see just how different/alike from them we might be.

Memoirinvites you in. Memoir throws open the door and says, “Look, here I am, wartsand all. This is my most naked self. Feel free to have an opinion.”

It’sbrazen. And while it may be self-centered, in the most literal sense of theword, it is not narcissistic.  

But,memoir also isn’t for everyone. Few things are. So, if you think a personalnarrator is kind of whiny, that’s fine. I’d just suggest you read fictioninstead. And while I think Elizabeth Gilbert is probably doing just fine withher international bestseller, film rights and ancillary products, I do thinkshe should be cut a little slack on those “me, me, me” criticisms.

The Wall

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...

From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.

Yes, I said taking out a wall. 

You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)

While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.

"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.

"Not sure yet."

A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.

"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."

"I might as well have it around," I thought. 

Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and  myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."

I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?

Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.

Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.

Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.

Pat Conroy, Writing and Family

Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)

I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.

Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."

That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.

"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."

"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)

"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."