The dog days of summer barked their way into my work ethic, making it more difficult than usual to maintain a regular writing schedule. But I needed some down time—I'd recently completed a manuscript of prose and poetry for a dance theatre performance staged this past June. I also squeezed in a few poetry submissions, and I found a couple of potential publication venues for the hybrid chapbook I composed for the performance.
When those items were ticked off my to-do list, I took on the challenge of completing a memoir that had been languishing for months—not because I lacked motivation, but because writing it has necessitated a significant amount of emotional fortitude. With everything else I was involved in, I just didn't have the mental energy.
Also on the back burner are several humor pieces I hope to assemble into a chapbook. Several are already published as individual pieces, and a couple have won awards. Still, I plan to complete a few more. The memoir, however, is my priority. And I'm ready to get back to it.
Before diving into this lengthy project, I read a magical realism book by an author who based one of her characters on a family death that reminded me of a death I'd experienced as a teenager. Reading her novel jumpstarted my motivation to write my memoir with a fresh voice.
Rather than return to an old draft, I'm hammering out a new one. After opening with a hint of the conflict to be resolved at the memoir's conclusion, I'm doing a lot of telling to get the various plot points down on the pages (I'm not big on outlines). In the next draft, I'll develop my scenes with additional sensory details and internal dialogue that should help the reader experience them as the child protagonist did.
One thing I've learned about writing memoirs is the importance of the protagonist's discovery and transformation. I don't plan to spell out the details in didactic fashion; instead, I want said transformation to organically evolve for the reader as it has for myself. But I've encountered a conundrum. As I write down the factual stuff, I find that I'm injecting moments of reflection through the voice of the here-and-now version of myself—the one who understands the truth behind what happened and has gained insight into how those truths shaped me into the person I am today.
It appears I'm writing from two different perspectives. I'm not sure how to intertwine the two voices residing side-by-side in my head. While it seems a little odd to search for someone else's definition of what voice I should write my memoir in, I need to determine what amount of telling vs. showing is appropriate to better understand how the voice of the younger protagonist interacts on the page with the older and wiser protagonist.
So…as if I were retreating to the parlor in the accompanying image to nestle up to a good read (I wish), I took a brief break to research information about the memoirist's voice. It turns out, my conundrum was justified.
To be continued next month…