My daytime memoir class met today. Those ladies have the most interesting stories, usually told with a nice bit of humor so that we end up laughing a lot. Today we got sidetracked by long discussions of people who are cat lovers and those who are not. Then of course it veered into dog stories, and I finally brought the discussion back to memoirs. But I think that talking and sharing is as important to the class members as the writing of the memoir, though once again I can see memoirs taking shape in a few people's work. This class doesn't have the repeat rate the evening class does, and I don't really expect many to get very far on a memoir in seven weeks. We'll see what happens.
Tonight I finished the edits on my mystery, Skeleton in a Dead Space, and sent it back to the editor. Sign of the changing internet world--she lives in Wales. I think a couple of language differences cropped up between us. Made me laugh. One has to do with plural vs. plural possessive, and the other is the colloquial, "I were you, I wouldn't . . . ." She kept wanting to make it "If I were you," but I told her in conversation, lots of us say, "It were me," etc. It is a good feeling to have that off my desk. I planned to devote all day tomorrow to it, and now it's done. I can read that new issue of Bon Appetit that arrived today!
But tomorrow has a project. My cat is not acting right--not eating much, not pooping much, throwing up a bit tonight The vet said it's time for them to look at him. Another bill I don't need, but I am a tad worried. Wywy will be 19 this spring and seems healthy, but these recent symptoms concern me.
Showing posts with label memoirs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoirs. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Writing Your Own Obituary
Lots of journalists write their own obituaries and also keep obituaries on file of famous people, local or not--just in case. I actually started my own some time ago because I thought if I got hit by a truck, my children would write, "She was the daughter of Grandmother and Grandfather." So I thought to nail down the facts of my life for them. In doing so, I missed totally what I hoped was the spirit of my life--I'm hoping, when the time comes, they can fill in with some kind words about whatever they see as my attributes
But at the last session, my memoir class somehow got to talking about obituaries, and I suggested that having each member write their obituary would be an appropriate exercise for tonight. Only a few completed it, and one wrote about how she never reads obituaries and hates funerals--off topic to my mind, but one class member said it revealed the writer's love of her family. Two others wrote eulogies--almost light-hearted pieces about how they saw their own lives. One had herself living until 125 and the other wrote "She went before she was ready . . . but she's living in a yellow cottage with roses on the other side." I was the only one who wrote an obit that followed the formula used by the newspaper--with great gaps, of course. But I got the facts of my birth, education, and career down so that when the day comes the kids will have that (stored in my computer). I tried for a lighthearted attempt at describing my life--mostly about meals enjoyed--but I hope the kids will embroider on that.
It was an interesting class--we only have two sessions left. Out of 8 remaining members, five have signed up for next fall. I'll teach eight sessions, one every week, so we'll be through by Thanksgiving. I'll also be teaching eight noon sessions for Human Resources at TCU. Who knows? Maybe I've found a second career.
But I think I'll start the next sessions off with the obituary exercise--what better way to put a memoir into order than to do an overview of your life?
Hats off to Elizabeth (Beth) Knudson, who has been my co-coordinator of this class and has kept records of who is bring food when and all that stuff. Next semester she will not be at the noon sessions at all and at the evening sessions only as she can find time. But my deep thanks to her for all her help, support, and vision--and for a longstanding friendship. Check out Beth's blogs at http://www.cowstoquinoa.blogspot.com/ and http://www.laughingladybug.com/.
But at the last session, my memoir class somehow got to talking about obituaries, and I suggested that having each member write their obituary would be an appropriate exercise for tonight. Only a few completed it, and one wrote about how she never reads obituaries and hates funerals--off topic to my mind, but one class member said it revealed the writer's love of her family. Two others wrote eulogies--almost light-hearted pieces about how they saw their own lives. One had herself living until 125 and the other wrote "She went before she was ready . . . but she's living in a yellow cottage with roses on the other side." I was the only one who wrote an obit that followed the formula used by the newspaper--with great gaps, of course. But I got the facts of my birth, education, and career down so that when the day comes the kids will have that (stored in my computer). I tried for a lighthearted attempt at describing my life--mostly about meals enjoyed--but I hope the kids will embroider on that.
It was an interesting class--we only have two sessions left. Out of 8 remaining members, five have signed up for next fall. I'll teach eight sessions, one every week, so we'll be through by Thanksgiving. I'll also be teaching eight noon sessions for Human Resources at TCU. Who knows? Maybe I've found a second career.
But I think I'll start the next sessions off with the obituary exercise--what better way to put a memoir into order than to do an overview of your life?
Hats off to Elizabeth (Beth) Knudson, who has been my co-coordinator of this class and has kept records of who is bring food when and all that stuff. Next semester she will not be at the noon sessions at all and at the evening sessions only as she can find time. But my deep thanks to her for all her help, support, and vision--and for a longstanding friendship. Check out Beth's blogs at http://www.cowstoquinoa.blogspot.com/ and http://www.laughingladybug.com/.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Looking Back at Life
I've been reading memoirs--one book and two manuscripts. The book, The $64 Tomato, by William Alexander, is a charming, gracefully written, wry account of how one man's vegetable garden--albeit a huge one--took over his life. Alexander recounts battles with fungi and his slip and slide down the hill away from his dream of organic gardening, his battles with animals, including deer and a groundhog he eventually named SuperChuck. Not content to grow beefsteak or other common varieties of tomatoes, he grew antique varieties, such as Brandywine--and you guess it, when he totalled up his expenses, he figured one tomato cost him $64. A herniated disc--and possibly just general disenchantment after years of backbreaking labor--eventually put an end to his career as a major gardener. The book is both amusing and a cautionary tale--and that's what memoirs should be.
At TCU Press, my usual reaction when a memoir is submitted is to reassure the writer that I know he or she has had an interesing life and explain as gently as possible that memoirs by persons without fame are a drug on the market. I usually suggest self-publishing on the internet for family and friends. Yet occasionally a manuscrpt rises above that, mostly because it has a special hook. The first manuscript I read was "Lost in Austin," wherein the author, a minister, uses the sense of dislocation prompted by a move from the Pacific Northwest to Austin as a metaphor for the dislocation that many of us feel in our daily lives--I dare say all of us if we're at all introspective. I had expected heavy concentration on the spiritual life, but there is none--he was at the time of writing a non-practicing minister and the book is firmly grounded in Austin. It's a good candidate for our press, because of the Texas angle and because it's cleverly written, but the author has written under a pseudonym, and I will have to convince him to change that. How can he promote a book anonymously?
The second memoir, "Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp," is by a woman minister in her fifties who, tired of being assistant minister in a large city church, answered a call to be the only minister at a small church in Dewey, Arizona. This one has much more reflection on the spiritual life as the author tries to figure out her beliefs, her relationship to God, what she believes and what she can say to her congregation. Woven into the narrative are strains of infidelity (her husband had an affair) and death (several parishoners die, and finally, her husband succumbs to leukemia).
But what struck me about this memoir has to do with adoption. The author has apparently carried through life a sense of failure because she was barren; her two children are adopted, and her relationship with her daughter, a Native American, has been anything but good. As a teen, the girl was a runaway, involved with drugs, all your nightmares. Yet late in the book they seem to have reconciled and recognized how they value each other.
As the mother of four adopted children and as a woman who also apprently could not get pregnant, I identified with this part of her story . . . sort of. I have those four wonderful children, with beautiful personalities as adults, and seven grandchildren--how could I possibly feel barren? Honestly my failure to give birth rarely gets a second thought--and when it does, it's usually gratitude that I got my kids the easy way. One of my children is of mixed race, but he, like his siblings, has never shown the desperate need to find his birth family that the memoir writer's daughter felt. Since my son travels often to Hong Kong, the city of his birth mother, I once asked if he liked to meet her and his family. His reply? He'd like to see them from a distance, but he doesn't really want to meet them
Memoir writing is a fine art--and only few can do it successfully. I've written a memoir cookbook, to be published next fall, but that didn't quite require me to come to grips with my life. Sometimes I think I should try--I have not only the story of the happy side of adoption to tell, but that of a lifelong battle with an axiety disorder, the joys and tribulations of a single parent, a career as author and publisher that while it hasn't made me rich and famous has given me great rewards other than monetary. (My friend Bobbie, whom the kids said "always told it like it was," once said to me, "Have you considered that you've had more success than most writers and you ought to be content with that?"--a good thought to ponder.) I may try that memoir--I've made notes about it--but maybe I'm afraid some publisher would say to me, "Why don't you self-publish for family and friends, dear?"
At TCU Press, my usual reaction when a memoir is submitted is to reassure the writer that I know he or she has had an interesing life and explain as gently as possible that memoirs by persons without fame are a drug on the market. I usually suggest self-publishing on the internet for family and friends. Yet occasionally a manuscrpt rises above that, mostly because it has a special hook. The first manuscript I read was "Lost in Austin," wherein the author, a minister, uses the sense of dislocation prompted by a move from the Pacific Northwest to Austin as a metaphor for the dislocation that many of us feel in our daily lives--I dare say all of us if we're at all introspective. I had expected heavy concentration on the spiritual life, but there is none--he was at the time of writing a non-practicing minister and the book is firmly grounded in Austin. It's a good candidate for our press, because of the Texas angle and because it's cleverly written, but the author has written under a pseudonym, and I will have to convince him to change that. How can he promote a book anonymously?
The second memoir, "Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp," is by a woman minister in her fifties who, tired of being assistant minister in a large city church, answered a call to be the only minister at a small church in Dewey, Arizona. This one has much more reflection on the spiritual life as the author tries to figure out her beliefs, her relationship to God, what she believes and what she can say to her congregation. Woven into the narrative are strains of infidelity (her husband had an affair) and death (several parishoners die, and finally, her husband succumbs to leukemia).
But what struck me about this memoir has to do with adoption. The author has apparently carried through life a sense of failure because she was barren; her two children are adopted, and her relationship with her daughter, a Native American, has been anything but good. As a teen, the girl was a runaway, involved with drugs, all your nightmares. Yet late in the book they seem to have reconciled and recognized how they value each other.
As the mother of four adopted children and as a woman who also apprently could not get pregnant, I identified with this part of her story . . . sort of. I have those four wonderful children, with beautiful personalities as adults, and seven grandchildren--how could I possibly feel barren? Honestly my failure to give birth rarely gets a second thought--and when it does, it's usually gratitude that I got my kids the easy way. One of my children is of mixed race, but he, like his siblings, has never shown the desperate need to find his birth family that the memoir writer's daughter felt. Since my son travels often to Hong Kong, the city of his birth mother, I once asked if he liked to meet her and his family. His reply? He'd like to see them from a distance, but he doesn't really want to meet them
Memoir writing is a fine art--and only few can do it successfully. I've written a memoir cookbook, to be published next fall, but that didn't quite require me to come to grips with my life. Sometimes I think I should try--I have not only the story of the happy side of adoption to tell, but that of a lifelong battle with an axiety disorder, the joys and tribulations of a single parent, a career as author and publisher that while it hasn't made me rich and famous has given me great rewards other than monetary. (My friend Bobbie, whom the kids said "always told it like it was," once said to me, "Have you considered that you've had more success than most writers and you ought to be content with that?"--a good thought to ponder.) I may try that memoir--I've made notes about it--but maybe I'm afraid some publisher would say to me, "Why don't you self-publish for family and friends, dear?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)