Memory Writers Network

Families are like the ocean - all memories eventually run down into the ocean of family experience. So when my sister said she was moving, I thought it was a great opportunity to help her go through a transition, and at the same time, take a swim in my family memories. Well, that’s a story I can’t tell yet, because I’m going to help her tomorrow, but when I do, I’ll draw out a story or two to tell about the past.

We’re both interested in the past. For one thing, we’re the only two people left alive who grew up in that row home in Philadelphia. So I was interested when she told me she signed up for a memoir class at the West Laurel Hill Cemetery. What a great idea, having a memory writing class, at a cemetery. And it’s the same cemetery where my brother was laid to rest, so the three of us will be together again for the first time in years, sharing memories about life in the family ocean.

At the dramatic reading of Jerry Perna’s semi-autobiographical “Seven Men from Now” in West Philadelphia’s Rotunda the other night, Jerry Perna started blubbering as he was telling a story about his father’s last night on earth. The reading was filled with emotion about the author’s frustration with his father, and the pathos of losing him. In the story, the son had found a twenty dollar bill on the street, and wanted to find the owner. His father said, “Don’t look too far. Just be grateful you found it.” Then his father died. And the performer cried. Since the performer was also the author, it was easy to understand that he was remembering the emotions of that moment. And throwing himself into the moment and feeling it. That’s an actor’s trick.

And it’s not a bad trick for a writer. If you can feel what you’re writing, while you write it, there’s a good chance the reader will also feel those emotions. Of course, it takes practice. Just as Perna had years of acting experience to draw from when he performed these lines, over time a writer will bring years of experience to translate the real emotions from heart to paper.

You start making memories every day. Last night for example, I went to a dramatic reading in Philadelphia. Jerry Perna’s play was dramatically read by himself and several actors, as part of a joint effort to provide actors with opportunities to express their craft.

The reading was being produced for a live video feed through the New Century television station, located in Newtown. My friend Mike Shoeman introduced me to the CEO of New Century, Ariel Schwartz. Instead of asking him for his story, I pitched my idea to publicize memoir writers. I would have preferred learning more about him, but I observed something about myself. When I had two minutes with the CEO of a television station my tendency was to talk about myself. That’s a good observation to file for further reference. Perhaps I’ll be able to use it in my memoir.

Speaking of memoirs, before the show I asked Jerry Perna how much of his play was based on his life. He said, “About 99.9%” Then watching the show, I saw what he meant. It treated issues of growing up in the sixties and his character’s relationship with his father. Afterwards, I asked him if writing and performing it was therapeutic, and he said it was “more therapeutic than therapy.”

So what does going to a play have to do with writing memoirs? Here are a few ways that last night informs the project of writing about life:

* Life is a series of memories, starting from last night. That’s why people try to capture their memories in diaries or blogs (like this one). Or photo albums of birthdays and vacations. It’s all grist for the memoir mill. Lesson: Record memories.

* The play took place near the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. When I was in Central High School in Philadelphia, I did a research paper about the Pullman Rebellion. It turns out that the governor of Illinois called in the national guard to break up a strike against the Pullman Railroad. To research that school paper, I took the subway and trolley down to the hallowed grounds of the University of Pennsylvania to pour through the card catalog and go to find a dusty, precious book in the stacks. Now, every time I walk on that campus I remember powerful feelings evoked from the past. Lesson: Visit old haunts and write the memories .

Because I’m writing this blog entry, I’m reviewing a memory that happened as recently as last night. So I can apply memory writing techniques to find out more about it. Namely, I ask, “What was the emotional power in the scene? What did people want from me? What did I want, hope, and fear?” The event contained the possibilities for new beginnings, of a connection with the Philadelphia cultural scene, with several fellow writers I met, and with the people associated with New Century, Mike Shoeman, president of Life Act Coaching, Marta Reis, and Ariel Schwartz. Culture is a strange and powerful beast. It wants to give and share, and to do those things it needs to create community. Artists, writers, performers, and everyone associated with culture are hungry to develop community. Lesson: You can meet people who want to meet you when you offer something to their culture.

So where would this evening go in my memoir? Is it the culmination of a lifetime process, or the beginning of the rest of my life? Of course the answer is both. Lesson: Life keeps generating memories, and I can gather these memories together into a story.

I’m reading through 4 memoirs right now, and I learn something from each one.

From Margaret George’s “Never use your dim lights,” I’m learning how politicians jerk each other around, and how hard it is to stay idealistic in the world of politics.

From George Brummell’s “Shades of Darkness” I’m learning how brutal the Vietnam war was for infantry grunts. Wow, going out, watching friends die, and then going out again. I can’t imagine it.

From Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes,” I’m learning about growing up dirt poor in Ireland. And I’m listening to the audio book in awe as the Irish storyteller uses his superb voice to bring his characters to life. His inflections are so interesting, I feel like I’m in the hands of a master.

I just started “A Silent Gesture” by Tommie Smith. It starts not with his protest gesture at the 68 Olympics that made him famous, but with his return 30 years later to his Alma Mater to be praised and commended for the act that became such a powerful symbol of protest. Smith used the Olympic podium to silently register his protest, and in return, lost the advertising endorsements and other benefits his victory entitled him to..

I went down to center city Philadelphia last night to Larry Robins book store, to hear a talk by Tommie Smith. Smith won gold in the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City, and then shocked the world by raising his fist during the awards ceremony. It seems innocent enough now, but in 1968 it was considered so insolent it created a national furor. Smith’s memoir recounts the story. I loved being able to touch history like this, in a small room in a bookstore in Philadelphia. How many millions of people watched him as he made his small attempt to raise consciousness, and now almost 40 years later, I can see him, talk to him, and wonder what such a life is like. I can do better than that. I can read his book, Tommie Smith, Silent Gesture, and when I’m done I’ll ask him questions about writing it.

There was one more bonus to my visit. I met his publishers at Temple University Press. To publish books, it’s good to know who is publishing what.