If memoir serves me well
Due to family circumstances, my dad is temporarily living on his own, far from home. He brought with him some projects, including his collection of sunrise oil paintings that he hopes to sell and a few books he hopes to finish. One of his goals is to start his memoir.
I can see his broad shoulders hunched, most likely in the middle of the night, over a few leafs of aged paper, writing with a thick pencil that was sharpened using a blunt knife. One would think that age 72 is a fine time to write your memoir. You’re still alive, that’s one good reason. You may die any day, that’s another.
My dad was born abroad. He was an actor and artist in his youth. He met my mom in Paris. They came to the States to get married and have children. He traveled with the movies as a set painter. And he has philosophies. Is that enough to write about?
When we were younger, Robin and I mused that to live a full life, your life should be worth writing about. Saying it was meaningless then. What did we know about living a full life? We worked and we went out. Our only desire for the future was that it be interesting.
So what kind of life is worth writing about? Or worth reading about, if we dare go so far? How interesting or inspiring does it need to be? How much material do you need to begin?
I’ve only suggested to two people that they write about their life. Both endure pain and tragedy. Does this mean one needs tragedy to begin a memoir? Is that why my dad finally decided to write his?
If I think of the biographies I’ve read, they were usually about writers or artists, or people related to writers or artists. Vincent Van Gogh, Zelda Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Christopher Hitchens, Sarah and Gerald Murphy. They all lived lives worth writing about, but with the exception of Hitchens’, I wouldn’t choose to live any of them. Could be I prefer contentment and sanity over a life worth writing about?
But surely there are reasonably happy people with modestly exciting lives who’ve written their memoirs anyway. Perhaps in a thousand closets, above the winter coats, behind the boxes of old photographs, under the stamp collections that will never be worth anything, there are memoirs.
They won’t be published, but maybe they’ll be read. And the people reading them might laugh or cry, or do both at the same time. They might raise their brows at the secrets revealed. Then they’ll reflect on the life they read about and reflect on their own life in contrast. And if those memoirs are read by even one person who cares, isn’t that something?
If I look at my own life so far, there’s not much material. Nothing particularly exciting or inspiring. And would I want it to be? Would I ever want a reason to start writing a memoir? Of course I want to live an interesting life filled with fascinating people. But a life worth writing about? Not sure anymore.
Of course, I AM writing about my life in this blog. But it’s not often about the day-to-day details of what I do. It’s more the day-to-day of what I think. And thinking about your life is at least half of it, no?
But I think though a blog may be more accurate because the memory is fresher (unlike a memoir that’s written at the end of your life when you need to force your pruney brain to remember details) it may possibly be more dishonest in terms of actual feeling because it’s current and there’s a level of caution and social prudence guiding what ends up on the internet. Or maybe not exactly dishonest, but not entirely inclusive. If I were at the end of my life, I might possibly divulge more, or about more private things.
What I must be coming to suggest is that everyone should keep a journal or post in their blog or write their memoirs or any combination. For their own personal reasons, but also because we have very few true witnesses to our lives. We have witnesses for the things we do publicly or with friends or with family. But not as many witnesses for how and what we think. And even less with whom we feel comfortable sharing with, and lesser still who understand us.
But sharing what we think or how we feel through words, I think, has the capacity to invite our friends and family closer to us in our current lives, hopefully enriching readers and writers alike. And at the end of our lives, our words can give meaning to the person who finds the memoir hidden in the coat closet. The kind of meaning that they wouldn’t have found by simply hearing stories about that person or even living alongside them. I guess what I'm trying to say, is maybe you don’t need to live a life worth writing about for your life or your writing to have meaning.
I can see his broad shoulders hunched, most likely in the middle of the night, over a few leafs of aged paper, writing with a thick pencil that was sharpened using a blunt knife. One would think that age 72 is a fine time to write your memoir. You’re still alive, that’s one good reason. You may die any day, that’s another.
My dad was born abroad. He was an actor and artist in his youth. He met my mom in Paris. They came to the States to get married and have children. He traveled with the movies as a set painter. And he has philosophies. Is that enough to write about?
When we were younger, Robin and I mused that to live a full life, your life should be worth writing about. Saying it was meaningless then. What did we know about living a full life? We worked and we went out. Our only desire for the future was that it be interesting.
So what kind of life is worth writing about? Or worth reading about, if we dare go so far? How interesting or inspiring does it need to be? How much material do you need to begin?
I’ve only suggested to two people that they write about their life. Both endure pain and tragedy. Does this mean one needs tragedy to begin a memoir? Is that why my dad finally decided to write his?
If I think of the biographies I’ve read, they were usually about writers or artists, or people related to writers or artists. Vincent Van Gogh, Zelda Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Christopher Hitchens, Sarah and Gerald Murphy. They all lived lives worth writing about, but with the exception of Hitchens’, I wouldn’t choose to live any of them. Could be I prefer contentment and sanity over a life worth writing about?
But surely there are reasonably happy people with modestly exciting lives who’ve written their memoirs anyway. Perhaps in a thousand closets, above the winter coats, behind the boxes of old photographs, under the stamp collections that will never be worth anything, there are memoirs.
They won’t be published, but maybe they’ll be read. And the people reading them might laugh or cry, or do both at the same time. They might raise their brows at the secrets revealed. Then they’ll reflect on the life they read about and reflect on their own life in contrast. And if those memoirs are read by even one person who cares, isn’t that something?
If I look at my own life so far, there’s not much material. Nothing particularly exciting or inspiring. And would I want it to be? Would I ever want a reason to start writing a memoir? Of course I want to live an interesting life filled with fascinating people. But a life worth writing about? Not sure anymore.
Of course, I AM writing about my life in this blog. But it’s not often about the day-to-day details of what I do. It’s more the day-to-day of what I think. And thinking about your life is at least half of it, no?
But I think though a blog may be more accurate because the memory is fresher (unlike a memoir that’s written at the end of your life when you need to force your pruney brain to remember details) it may possibly be more dishonest in terms of actual feeling because it’s current and there’s a level of caution and social prudence guiding what ends up on the internet. Or maybe not exactly dishonest, but not entirely inclusive. If I were at the end of my life, I might possibly divulge more, or about more private things.
What I must be coming to suggest is that everyone should keep a journal or post in their blog or write their memoirs or any combination. For their own personal reasons, but also because we have very few true witnesses to our lives. We have witnesses for the things we do publicly or with friends or with family. But not as many witnesses for how and what we think. And even less with whom we feel comfortable sharing with, and lesser still who understand us.
But sharing what we think or how we feel through words, I think, has the capacity to invite our friends and family closer to us in our current lives, hopefully enriching readers and writers alike. And at the end of our lives, our words can give meaning to the person who finds the memoir hidden in the coat closet. The kind of meaning that they wouldn’t have found by simply hearing stories about that person or even living alongside them. I guess what I'm trying to say, is maybe you don’t need to live a life worth writing about for your life or your writing to have meaning.
posted by Anne at 10:31 PM
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