Do you like memoirs? Have a fav?

I don’t, as a rule, search them out, but sometimes I pick one up. Either the author is writing about their life through a topic that interests me (Black Milk by Elif Shafak, for instance, is about the balancing of becoming a mother and her writing life) or just catches my attention. I recently bought a copy of Knife by Salman Rushdie because I’d just read and enjoyed his novel, Victory City. I haven’t read it yet.

Is writing a book so soon after a traumatic event a good idea? On the one hand, memories are fresh. Feelings are immediate. And a person may understandably feel that having come so close to death time is of the essence. On the other hand, distance offers perspective. I was startled to see the book. Already?

And I have mixed feeling about Rushdie the man. Do you have to like someone to read their memoir or biography? Why or why not?

Over 20 years go, I read his book about the film, The Wizard of Oz. Because that movie means the world to me, I really liked that little book (disagreeing with him only once or twice), but over the years, I haven’t read much else that would endear him to me. Blame too many scandalous marriages and reviews about his writing of female characters. (That said, I did like Victory City. It has several compelling female characters. Indeed, the main character is a woman, and she gets to do a lot of interesting things. Now, if I put on my critique hat and did a deep dive into the storytelling, what might I find? I don’t currently have the energy for that. My I’m-just-here-for-the-story hat is enough at the moment.)

Anyway. This isn’t meant to be about Rushdie. Read who you like.

This is about writing a memoir. Why write one at all? How much distance does one need to make sense of things? Maybe that can’t even be done until you sit down to write about it.

Am I writing a memoir, you might ask? Ah, well…no. Not exactly.

I have decided to write a set of stories based on my life, but to douse them with fiction. Many of my childhood stories seem great for a conversation, but to put them in a book? Actual life defies a neat narrative arc. Everything needs context, and the context is a mess.

My parents are context. Obviously, I can’t write their memoirs for them, and perhaps I shouldn’t presume to write about their lives at all. To write about another’s life is to control the narrative, isn’t it? But I can’t write about my life without understanding my parents. Goodness. Then what about their parents? And then their parents? Back and back we go, as Kyle Minor does in this: The Question of Where We Begin. If we write (or read) to understand, it matters where we start the tale. (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speaks about this, as have others.)

Unlike Shafak, I wouldn’t be writing about my life to help someone else navigate a similar experience. Nor am I a famous person who has undergone a very public trauma about which people are curious.

Problems with writing a memoir or biography–having to tell the truth (how accurate is my memory, really?), worrying about getting sued (not everyone is dead!), worrying about hurting loved ones (again, not everyone is dead–I flatter myself that my loved ones will read it–hahahaha!), and dealing with life’s traumas to share with the world is hard, very hard.

When it comes down to it, I don’t think fictionalizing things solves these problems. It’s just what I want to do.

In any case, this means changing all the names. This isn’t easy. A name embodies a person. For Story-a-Day May, I’ve already written a few stories based extremely loosely on real people, and the sticking point has been the names. My forcing new names on people who didn’t ask for them feels weird and wrong even if they’ll never know.

Yes, I’m still working on The Princess Detective. I must. But if I didn’t have ten projects going at once, who would I be?

Thanks for reading.