Happy in the age of memoir

Posted on March 31, 2010 by doradueck

We live, it’s often said, in the age of memoir.

On one level, a statement like that is simply an assessment of what’s obvious in so many aspects of our culture. Certainly in the media — books, television, radio, internet — the weight of communication now often rests on the shoulders of personal narrative, on “reality” by way of experience. It’s a democratization of ideas and values supported by technology, especially in social media like Facebook or Twitter, where anyone can record the progress of their existence publicly, with as much inanity or imagination as they possess, or in places like the blogosphere, with its vast potential to reference and record one’s life. (And yes, here I am, too.)

And just this past Sunday, an example of living in the age of memoir in our church: whereas baptismal candidates at one time marked their desire for baptism by memorizing and assenting to a catechism, however formally or informally that might be presented, the five young adults who will be baptized in our congregation this Easter Sunday shared their life stories thus far, at least in relation to faith. And as they did so, they revealed the differences that individuals have, and the inspiration and insight we have come to expect when we listen to people’s stories.

At another level, it’s clear that there’s plenty of room for critique, and for criticism too, in the notion of “age of memoir.” Even in describing it, there’s the implication of narcissism, the contagion of the me-generation, the focus on the individual at the expense of community (which in Anabaptist circles, at least, is not quite how it’s supposed to be) lying not that far under the surface.

The now battered copy of Little Pilgrim's Progress my mother read to me, which I later also read to our children

I’m in no mood for complaint or criticism, however. Beginning with the children’s version of Pilgrim’s Progress which fixed itself indelibly on my mind in my earliest childhood — and was, as far as I’m concerned, a first taste of “life-writing” (a term I prefer to memoir, as it encompasses biography, confession, memoir, journals, letters, autobiography) because of its journey motif, even if not strictly life-writing itself — I’ve been steadily shaped by the expressed experiences of other people. And I still haven’t had enough, frankly.

Some of my interest is plain curiosity about others, but some is the quest for resonance with and wisdom from others which I need to live my own life. And I’m not sure that women in the particular categories I fit have been expressed nearly enough; I’m hungry for more of that too.

So if it’s the age of memoir, I’m saying that I don’t mind at all. I just want to find the right pieces of it, and think about it properly. Which brings me to a blog site I often visit, a kind of one-stop beginning for lessons, guides, discussions, and reviews in the area of memoir: 100 Memoirs. (I love the witty subtitle: “because 99 just isn’t enough.”) Shirley Hershey Showalter hosts/writes the site. She’s a former president (1996-2004) of Goshen (Ind.) College and wants to read 100 memoirs on the way to writing her own memoir of growing up Mennonite in America, 1948-1966. She picked the name for her blog from Heather Seller’s advice to new writers, as she puts it in her opening post, “to read 100 excellent examples of their genre before attempting to enter the ring with the best.” If you’re interested in memoir, whether as a reader or writer, it’s a great place to learn and stay connected.

The impulse to revise

Posted on March 24, 2010 by doradueck

Things were a little intense at our house the last week or so, since I was reading proofs, and not just any old proofs, but those of my own upcoming novel (This Hidden Thing). Proofs mean the work that’s been sitting in computer files and doublespaced on 81/2 X 11 sheets of paper, has landed on designed pages for a book. Proofs mean it’s close to ready for press. Just this last chance to check things over. A wee bit of room for changes, but not much. Not much at all. The cover design is close to finished too. It’s all rather exciting and scary.

On the page in its as-good-as-permanent form, the work can look strange and unfamiliar. In spite of all the times one’s gone through the manuscript, one suddenly sees what there’s probably too much of and maybe too little of as well. I’m comforted, however, in reading the letters of Flannery O’Connor, to find that a writer as good as she was had experiences along the same line. In a letter Oct. 6, 1959 she wrote a friend:

The proofs [of The Violent Bear It Away] came… and seeing the thing in print very nearly made me sick. It all seemed awful to me. There seemed too much to correct to make correcting anything feasible. I did what I could or could stand to and sent them back…

Well, I’m not trying to scare anyone off my book by confessing and quoting that — I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t want readers, and I hope it’s not a surprise to hear that even at this stage of a book anxieties and vulnerabilities of all kinds manifest themselves. This is probably true for anyone who has to let go of what they’ve done, into the public. But O’Connor also said she thought the first and last sentence of the book were “mighty fine sentences” and that she had cheered herself “meditating on them.” After awhile I relaxed with the proofing process too and decided I would be okay with what was there — except for those changes I’ve pleaded the forbearance of my editor and the publishing team to make, of course!

But there’s just something unfailing about the impulse to revise, and to revise again. I had to chuckle over the note Flannery O’Connor sent editor Catharine Carver:

I’ve rewritten the last pages so I’ll enclose them as I think they’re an improvement. When the grim reaper comes to get me, he’ll have to give me a few extra hours to revise my last words. No end to this.

I wouldn’t mind some warning from the Reaper too, for the same reason!

Oh, and this revision after the post went up (it’s the great thing about blogging): please forgive the shameless self-promotion!

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NOTE: The launch date of This Hidden Thing (CMU Press) has been set for May 19 at McNally’s in Winnipeg.

Short stories: to read, and to write

Posted on January 29, 2010 by doradueck

The latest issue of the Center for Mennonite Writing’s online journal is up: this one devoted to “new fiction.” Editor Ervin Beck says the issue is intended “to encourage the writing of fiction in the Mennonite community.” Periodicals favour poetry, he notes. “Fiction requires more space from the publisher and more patience and commitment from the readers.”

For your patience and commitment then, seven new stories or novel excerpts, including the story “Chopsticks” by yours truly, in which the first person narrator weaves a tale of piano lessons, a train ride, her brother, and her father.

One of the goals I set myself several years ago was to put together a collection of short stories, containing some previously published stories as well as new work. I have eight published pieces from which I might draw, and about half that many others more or less completed or in progress. The publication of such a collection is by no means a given, of course; it may take as many years to find a publisher, especially in these uncertain times, as to write the stories themselves!

But in the meanwhile, I need to get back on track with the project itself. I lost momentum when I returned to the MB Herald last year as interim editor, and have had trouble getting it back, though my desire to continue remains strong. There’s just something about this kind of writing — perhaps because it’s a relatively new genre for me — that provokes all manner of self-doubt, fear, and procrastination. Each time I sit down to it, it’s like jumping into water over my head and knowing I still can’t swim. What’s the right technique again, for legs and arms, for breathing? Help!

Well, enough confession. Flannery O’Connor said, “The only way, I think, to learn to write short stories is to write them, and then to try to discover what you have done. The time to think of technique is when you’ve actually got the story in front of you.” So I’ve gone and declared myself here, and I’ve got the prod of my writers’ group’s monthly meeting on Monday, for which I must have something ready to read. The file of the story-in-progress is open. I’m jumping in. Again.