How I Wrote a Memoir: Part XI

A Working Title, a Slayer Concert, and Links Between Unlikely Events

When I worked on the first iteration of my manuscript, I wrote essays about my love life in a linear fashion because it didn’t dawn on me to do otherwise. I wasn’t explicitly connecting the stories, so it made the most sense not to write about my short marriage, then tell the story of my first love, then, say, sprinkle in my grief over never having children. I aimed for clarity; a linear structure seemed like the logical way to keep the reader from getting lost. I’d participated in enough writing workshops to know it’s not unusual for even the most discerning reader to become befuddled. When a nonfiction writer tells her story, she may forget strangers know nothing about her before they start reading. She can’t assume readers will understand her background, desires, and characters from her life unless she fills in the gaps—at strategic times: When did this happen? Where? Who is this person? Why is this situation important? How did we get here? A writer wants to complicate the story in as much as she wants the reader to turn pages to find out what happens next, but puzzling the reader for the sake of puzzling the reader is a surefire way to ensure she won’t finish the book.

How I Wrote a Memoir: Part X

When I sat down to write a book, writing an essay collection was a logical choice, and starting with romantic missteps in high school seemed like the best place to start.

In January 2014, with a few essays written and workshopped—and one of them published in an anthology—I finally realized I was capable of writing a nonfiction book about my tragic—and hilarious—love life, the topic I was drawn to almost exclusively. Up until then, however, I had no particular plan for these lengthy, nonchronological essays about dumb boys and my broken heart. At forty years old, it had been eighteen years since I had written in a journal, “I just want to be a writer,” and now I was able to say aloud, “I’m a writer,” without adding an undermining caveat. My assuredness wasn’t high, but it was improving because of people like Shawna Kenney, whom I wrote about in the last entry.