Interview with Memoir Author Susan Weidener About Honesty

Jerry Waxler

In her memoir, “Again in a Heartbeat,” author Susan Weidener tells with breathtaking clarity the entire lifespan of her relationship with John, from their first date, to falling love, getting married, having children, and then sinking into despair during her husband’s slow untimely death. I love the memoir because of its simplicity and power, and the ruthless honesty of her emotions, which were far from politically correct. After he is gone, the story continues, as Susan turns toward grieving and reclaiming her hold on life. The memoir does a wonderful job portraying this huge emotional journey. In addition to being a writer, Susan Weidener encourages and nurtures others to tell their story. In this part of the interview, I ask her about the experience of writing the memoir.

Jerry Waxler: One of the unique things about your memoir is its span of time, covering the period from when you first met your future husband, and ending as you attempt to recover your life and find a new beginning. So many aspiring memoir writers struggle to decide on the appropriate span for their stories. What can you share about the way this particular scope of time appeared right for you?

Susan Weidener: When I started the project, my thought was to write about being widowed and dating again as a middle-aged woman with two young sons. As the memoir progressed and I began to write about my husband, the women who critiqued my book said, “We want more about John.” I realized they were right. The real story was meeting John, falling in love and our ordeal with cancer.  I wanted to write about myself as a young woman living the life she had always dreamed.  Then the illness enters, shatters our lives. What happens when Prince Charming makes a dramatic and tragic exit?  Does true love only come once and, if so, is that enough? I included the three years after my husband’s death to describe the loss, the fear of being alone. There are no fairy tale endings, but you find the strength within yourself to be on your own.

Jerry Waxler: At the beginning of the memoir, I loved your portrayal of falling in love — These are compelling, detailed scenes that let us accompany you on your emotional journey. As a reader, I found them pleasurable and romantic. What was that like for you as a writer, to remember to a time before the loss, all the way back to the beginning of your relationship?

Susan Weidener:  Thank you. Writing memoir is living twice, which is painful and elating.  There were moments as I wrote about our first trip together as husband and wife to West Point when I felt John in the room with me again.  Writing about the day he and I stood under Kissing Rock, the place along the Hudson River where cadets would take their dates, and John told me about some of the girls he had brought there . . . it brought back memories of John’s inimitable sense of humor.  When I wrote the scene where John and I dance at our wedding to “As Time Goes By,” and John says to me, “Here’s looking at you kid,” I cried for all we once had and all we lost. Memoir, as you know, is not for the faint of heart.

Jerry Waxler: You did not portray yourself as an easy person to fall in love with, nor were you infinitely graceful and patient about your husband’s failing health. I think this aspect of your memoir represents one of the best things about where culture is heading in the 21st century. We’re dropping the pretense that we are perfect and trying to make peace with our own and each other’s unique quirks, and flaws. And by showing our flaws, we also show our strength in continuing to grow and to carry on despite setbacks. I felt inspired and consoled by your edgy imperfect behavior. But how did it feel to write about yourself in this exposed way? Wasn’t it strange to let people see those aspects of yourself? What prompted you to be so open about your own humanity?

Susan Weidener:  I agree with you.  Writing honestly is healthy, a way of moving forward and coming to terms. And what good is a memoir if it is not honest?  Then it is fiction.  Of course, we want to appear heroic, but that isn’t always the case.  Our fragility, our imperfections are what make us human.  It resonates with readers.  It makes a story engaging. By accepting my flaws, I found a place of healing.  Why wasn’t I kinder to him at the end of his life?  That question haunted me for years.  As I wrote my memoir, I began to see how almost anyone would have reacted much like I did when confronting the loss of their dreams, the person they loved more than any other.  Chronic illness affects an entire family, not just the person going through it.  Our society has a very difficult time dealing with death.  One of my hopes with Again in a Heartbeat is that showing my imperfections and what I went through as John’s illness progressed and he pulled away from me, helps others in similar situations be kinder and more forgiving to themselves.

Jerry Waxler: How has it worked out to be so open? Have you found that people think less of you for having been flawed?

Susan Weidener:  Quite the opposite.  People approach me and often say: “You were so honest!”  They tell me they admire my candor and my courage.  One woman said my book “touched her heart and her life.”  It doesn’t get much better than that. When people read my story, they want to share their own experience with marriage, cancer, being single. The conversations are amazing!

Click here for Part 2, in which I ask questions about writing the memoir

Click here for a link to the Amazon page for Again in a Heartbeat
Click here for Susan Weidener’s Home Page.

To see brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Interview With The Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Part 2

by Jerry Waxler

This is part 2 of my interview with Jon Reiner, author of the memoir “The Man Who Couldn’t Eat.” Click here for Part 1 of the interview. To read my essay about the things I learned from the book, click here.

Jerry Waxler: What can you share about your editing process? For example, some writers have specific rituals for rounds of editing, say devoting one round to improve sentence structure, another to develop characters, a third to clarify dialog, and so on. What rituals or methods do you use for editing?

Jon Reiner: I’m an inveterate, obsessive rewriter. Frankly, the fact may just be that I’m slow, but I labor over the language trying to write perfect sentences. I realize this makes me sound insufferable, but I haven’t been able to settle on another method. I don’t discriminate between exposition and dialogue; they both require repeat attention. I write “by ear,” so I often read the sentences aloud, or listen to them in my head, trying to find the right sounds, rhythms, cadences, combinations, and that process continues through the editing. Even now, I’ve been on a book tour reading passages of The Man Who Couldn’t Eat, and I can’t resist the impulse to improve a phrase, or add a beat, which I have done extemporaneously on occasion from the podium. Henry James was motivated to do the same thing, rewriting his published work before he died (and he was a million laughs). I don’t mean to put myself in James’s league, but I can understand why he felt inspired to continue reworking his prose.

Jerry Waxler: Memoir is supposed to be “a story” based on scenes. Your memoir is almost entirely scenes, and yet occasionally you lift out into micro-essays to support your points. For example you are talking about your cravings and you mention that Richard Burton, a “man urged by unrivaled cravings writes of the pleasure of American short-order cooking.” The notion of Richard Burton’s craving is not actually in the scene. It’s you the protagonist thinking about Richard Burton. That’s interesting. Can you explain the technique? Why is it okay to have a side note about Richard Burton’s cravings in a memoir about your own? This is just one example, I am fishing for an understanding of your attitude toward this stylistic device in general.

Jon Reiner: No story is fully realized without a reference to Richard Burton, the greatest rogue of them all. For a more complete explanation, please see my essay on the same for NPR. So, a side note about Burton is always warranted. With regard to my “technique,” you’re a canny guy, Waxler. Your combination of flattery, critical praise, and artistic interest almost had me. [Me laughing] But do you really think I’d reveal the magician’s secrets and kill the act so soon? Come on, man, I’ve only published one book; I’ve got a family to feed. So, let me say this: I’m opinionated, have been writing in a cave for decades, and the opportunity to share the brilliance of my many “side notes” (The Elimination of Public Drinking Fountains as Indictment of the Privatization of Government, anybody?) with a whole world of readers was catnip to my ego, but also potentially deadly to the story.

What did make sense was to selectively riff on topics that were fellow travelers to the food-essence of the narrative but were seemingly so far afield from rational, linear thought that they dramatized the protagonist’s (my) state of social and psychological dislocation. That dynamic tension between reality and escapism would both alert the reader to my emotional distance from the core of people at the center of the story and, if the written detours were entertaining, draw the reader into my experience and POV. Now that I’ve shared the inner workings of my signature technique with your readers, I can never use it again.

Jerry Waxler: Okay, I’m really digging for dirt here. Let me try another one of my heavily finessed questions. [laughing] Some memoirs end with scenes that put a nice final touch on events. For example, if someone is writing about Coming of Age, the memoir can end when the protagonist enters adulthood. However, there is another type of memoir ending that becomes especially important when the topics are more complex, and don’t lend themselves to clean finishing points. This is the “essay ending.” During the denouement some memoirs end with lessons learned. In my opinion you do it brilliantly, with your passionate wrapping up of the implications of your experience, for yourself, your relationship to the healing professions, and to the nature of love and family. You even suggest some personal and social calls to action. Nicely done! Could you tell me something (anything) about how you decided to end the book this way rather than a more scene-oriented ending?

Jon Reiner: When I understood what event would comprise the end of the story, I also acknowledged that the event marked the one-year anniversary from the inciting incident at the beginning of the story. The narrative would encompass the natural closure of a 12-month calendar, and I felt that it therefore demanded an appropriate measure of closure to the physical, emotional, psychological, personal and dietary issues that had characterized my experience and my relationships with the principals in the story. That choice was a bit of a leap for me. My tendency for endings is towards useful ambiguity, and I didn’t want to abandon that entirely – I do end the book with a final gesture that dramatizes the central conflict I will continue to wrestle with after the book is closed – and I patently rejected the idea of a formal summing up or lessons learned in an epilogue. As it so happened, the scene I chose to end the book organically allowed for the stating of my “closure” in dialogue, portraying final dinner toasts that happened in that country house. Here, I must, again, credit my editor, Trish. My first-draft ending reflected something closer to my interest in useful ambiguity, but Trish encouraged me to find the opportunity in the scene to be more direct and give the reader hooks on which to hang his final experience with me. Of course, she was right.

Jerry Waxler: What are you working on now?

Jon Reiner: I’ve written a number of essays which have been published this fall – on writing, on food, on sports, on real estate, on Occupy Wall Street. I’m working on two books – one fiction, one non-fiction, and they’ve both been in my head for years. The novel is called Uncle Moses in the Promise Land. It’s about refugees, immigration, identity, and the future of this country. The non-fiction is also a personal memoir called Chutes and Ladders. It’s about corporate layoffs, living with unemployment, refugees, identity, and the future of this county. Perhaps a smart publisher will sell them as a boxed set.

Notes
Blog Post: Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Pt1

Blog Post: Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Pt2

Click here for Jon Reiner’s Home Page

Click here for The Man Who Couldn’t Eat on Amazon

To see brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Interview Jon Reiner, The Man Who Couldn’t Eat

by Jerry Waxler

When Jon Reiner’s life seemed to be slipping away, his doctors told him that the best chance for survival would be to stop eating. Sent home with an intravenous feeding machine, he attempted to live without food. The morbid premise put me off at first, until I started thinking of the possibilities for insight, as well as marveling at the seemingly endless variety of life experience accessible through memoirs. In my previous posts, I wrote ten reasons why I was glad to have read the book, The Man Who Couldn’t Eat by Jon Reiner. In this two part interview, I ask the author about writing it.

Jerry Waxler: When you were working in your career as a marketing executive, you were pitching gloss, convincing people of the marketing spin rather than the underlying truth. In this memoir, you have gone to the other extreme, conveying your gritty truths. You have done an amazing job of portraying yourself as an edgy, vulnerable, barely surviving victim of your disease.

When did you realize the guy you were writing about was flawed and didn’t behave like a prince or hero? Was it disturbing to write so honestly about these aspects of yourself, showing yourself so crushed, with all this dismal truth?

Jon Reiner:  Have you been talking to my mother? You’ve made an insightful observation contrasting marketing writing and literary writing (and you’re the first interviewer who’s commented on my office career. You have been talking to my mother.) In the former, depicting perfection is the writer’s objective. In the latter, the writer’s exploration of imperfection is essential to compelling storytelling. My literary training and orientation is as a fiction writer, and it was natural for me to apply that method to writing The Man Who Couldn’t Eat. For memoir writing, however, there’s another element in the equation that’s uniquely important — personal honesty, something that was impressed upon me at the start of the writing. My agent, Mitchell Waters, who had worked with other memoirists, advised me that I would need to be brutally, even painfully, honest in the storytelling if I were to write a compelling memoir. I held myself to that in portraying the arcs of the characters over the one-year-period that’s depicted in the book — but it’s a tricky business. Emotionally, writing a memoir was much more difficult than writing fiction.

I had no reluctance to show my character flaws — I’ve been aware of them for a long time, and I believed they would make “Jon Reiner” a fuller, more interesting character in the story. But as I dug into the belly of the book, I was also conscious of the risk of exposing or violating the trust of the people who were closest to me and were required to be in the story. Fiction provides the writer with the devices to draw from reality with less likelihood of causing personal damage, or at least provides the camouflage that enables eventual repair. You can write fiction with greater freedom, unburdened by the conflict inherent in telling a true personal story. The memoir forces you to stand naked. Mining one’s life for material is impossibly tempting, because that material is so available, like it’s been delivered expressly for your use, but I still wanted to have a wife and friends after the book was published. There’s a difference between the examined life and the exposed life on the page. I had my wife, Susan, read the manuscript when it was finished because I knew she would be a better editorial protector of our family than I, since I was drunk with writer’s arrogance. She requested only that I delete one sentence. We’re still married, and I still have friends.

Jerry Waxler: How did you feel about including your wife in this radical honesty? Did you negotiate, discuss, cajole?

Jon Reiner: Though she may have preferred it personally, it would have been impossible to tell this story and exclude Susan’s role as spouse, mother, provider, companion, cook, and emotional counterweight. When I received the offer from Simon & Schuster/Gallery, Susan and I both understood what would be required of me, but, by that point, we had survived the most severe stresses on our marriage, so, the opportunity didn’t seem like it would be our undoing. The decision to include Susan — in terms of narrative dimensionality — was validated by my editor, Tricia Boczkowski, in her comments on the first-draft manuscript. In Trish’s meticulous, Eames-like block print, she penciled the note “MORE SUSAN” on the back-cover page. It was an agreeable note for me to absorb and execute. We’ve been married for 15 years; I have plenty of “More Susan” in me.

Jerry Waxler: Your writing voice is lovely, full of life, spontaneity and depth, and it’s fun to read. How did you evolve your voice?

Jon Reiner:  What can I say? ‘Lovely, full of life, spontaneity and depth, fun to read’ — guilty, as charged. It’s been particularly gratifying to me for the book to receive reviews that have singled out the quality of the writing. I’d been a struggling, unpublished fiction writer for 25 years. The memoir was my chance to get published; however, one of my anxieties was that it would be ghettoized as an “illness” story and evaluated solely on its emotional value with no consideration for the writing. As the Joe Gillis character says about the movies in Sunset Boulevard — and the same could be said about certain types of memoir — “Audiences don’t know somebody sits down and writes a picture; they think the actors make it up as they go along.” Like all writers, my voice is a reflection of all the outsize influences that have excited me in literature, drama, poetry, music, popular entertainment, oratory, spoken word, conversation, the works. I grew up with my father telling us wild Baron Munchausen stories around the fire in Maine, and I’ve never forgotten them. You soak all that in, you admire it, you envy it, you copy it, and then you find your way. Some writers are lucky; they discover their voice when they are 25. I took a little longer to find mine.

Jerry Waxler: What do you like to read that reminds you of or inspires the voice you write in?

Jon Reiner:  Actually, I do the opposite. As I mentioned, there are certain writers that have had a terrifically profound influence on me stylistically, from all over the waterfront — Fitzgerald, Delillo, Updike, Chekhov, Williams, Joyce, Capote, Cheever, Ian McEwen, Richard Ford, Woody Allen, Groucho, somebody stop me before I get completely unbearable. I loathe interviews where writers flood the page with their reading — leave it in grad school — and I feel the same way about novels or memoirs that rely too heavily on citing other writers’ works. I want to read your story. If I want to read Proust, I’ll read Proust. Which gets me back to your question. There are a number of favorite writers whose work I deliberately avoided when I was writing The Man Who Couldn’t Eat. I needed to be free from the influences I love.

Jerry Waxler: Can you describe your writing process? For example, do you write a whole draft straight through? Do you write in various parts of your book and then knit them together later? I’m fishing here for some comments about how you work your craft.

Jon Reiner:  I’m the stay-at-home dad of two school-age boys, so their schedule is my schedule. I can work roughly between 9:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m., and then perhaps late at night after homework, dinner, lunch making, showers, and clean up are done. There are plenty of days when I have to stop in the middle of a groove at 2:00 p.m., and I really would like to keep going, but those are the rules. I hate writing outlines, so I never start with that. Generally, I begin by writing notes, thoughts, sentences that come to mind, the larger thematic ideas, and then I finally get to it. I try to write the narrative sequentially, but it’s foolish not to follow your instincts, and they don’t need to follow the linear narrative. I didn’t know the ending of The Man Who Couldn’t Eat when I started writing the book. During the course of writing the first draft an event happened during a vacation at our friends’ country house, and in bed that night while I was writing some notes it became emphatically clear that the story’s ending had been presented to me. The ending had found me. It’s an exhilarating feeling when that happens. When I’m actively writing or thinking about a story, my mind opens itself to a more acute sense of observation and interpretation and, for weeks at a time, it can seem that everything around me is communicating some new detail or understanding of the story. It’s more than just “being in your own head.” It’s also being in everyone else’s head.

–To be continued–

Notes
Blog Post: Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Pt1

Blog Post: Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Pt2

Click here for Jon Reiner’s Home Page

Click here for The Man Who Couldn’t Eat on Amazon

To see brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

Bookmark and Share

Ten Reasons I Loved Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Part 2

By Jerry Waxler

Each memoir I devour reveals another corner of human experience. Take for example the memoir by Jon Reiner, “The Man Who Couldn’t Eat,” about a man suffering from an auto-immune condition that is destroying his intestines. When he stops eating, he learns many lessons about food, perseverance, courage and the loving support of friends. Here is part two of my list of ways the book taught me about turning memories into memoirs.

Extraordinary look at a doctor/patient relationship

Because Jon Reiner has been a patient for so many years, he forms profound relationships with his physicians, sometimes drawing an almost spiritual strength from their care. As a result, he is able to offer an unusually intimate look at the relationship between a patient and doctor.

Write
What unusual slant of life can you share in your memoir? As you read your draft material, identify an aspect of your life which you took for granted, but which readers might find unusual or informative.

Loyalty through thick and thin

One of the powerful strengths of the human condition is the social support that we give each other in times of need. This quality suffuses our lives so subtly that we barely notice it, and then during times of need, the loyalty of friends can become a life-giving force. That is certainly the case for Jon Reiner. His friends and family stood by him, overlooking the ugly side of his desperation. In fact, his wife’s willingness to stay with him through his trials creates one of the best love-in-marriage stories I have read.

Write
What resilient commitment of friends or family can add an inspiring note to your story?

Titles are important

Every book establishes a contract or “hook” with prospective readers. By the time you read the first line, your expectations have already been established by the title, subtitle, and blurb. When I picked up the “Man Who Couldn’t Eat,” I was curious about how that would feel, and what he learned from the experience. I doubt I would have been as interested in a book called “My Life with Crohn’s Disease.” Both titles are factually true, but the one that went to press sets up a compelling expectation that makes me want to read it.

And then I did read it, accompanying Reiner for the period when he was fed intravenously. He saw food as something that happened to other people. After finishing the book, I felt satisfied that it had delivered the impact its title and blurb promised.

Write
As you develop the central idea of your memoir-in-progress, maintain a file of possible titles and blurbs, to help you imagine what a reader will see the first time they glance at the finished work. This file can help you organize your book along lines that will make future readers curious.

Radical honesty of memoir heroes: why am I crying for a jerk?

Jon Reiner is one of the most unnerving, edgy, confused protagonists I have ever cheered for. His behavior is often unsympathetic, self-involved, and yet, despite these flaws, my heart goes out to him. Raunchy, sympathetic protagonists highlight one of the fundamentals of memoir writing: hard living makes good reading.

When I started submitting pieces of my own memoir to critique groups, I realized with rising horror that the protagonist I was describing had been a jerk. That was the first time the thought had occurred to me. Before then, I always wanted to think of myself as the good guy in the room. Writing the memoir showed me that I behaved poorly, just like people I mentally criticize. I’m one of them! Ultimately, I realized that dropping this pretense of perfection is one of the most important reasons for writing the memoir.

If you want readers to stay interested, allow them in to see the real you. Jon Reiner obviously did that. Despite his less-than-noble behavior, I reached the end of the book and felt it was a worthwhile experience. Now, I know things about him that his non-memoir reading friends do not. I have faith in his ability to grow, and by extension he has increased my faith that any of can learn from our own experiences.

Other edgy, yet sympathetic memoir protagonists

Debra Gwartney, “Live Through This” – About a mom who helplessly watches, and fumbles as her children disintegrate into street life.
Andre Dubus III, “Townie” About a blue collar street kid who first turned to violence and then to writing in order to find himself.
Janice Erlbaum, “Girl Bomb” About a teenager who ran away from home to live in a shelter in New York City.

Notes
Blog Post: Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Part 1
Click here for Jon Reiner’s Home Page

Click here for The Man Who Couldn’t Eat on Amazon


For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

Bookmark and Share

Ten Reasons to Read a Memoir About a Man Who Couldn’t Eat

by Jerry Waxler

Jon Reiner’s intestines were riddled with the autoimmune condition called Crohn’s Disease, a cruel punishment for a man who enjoys food as much as he does. His memoir, “The Man Who Couldn’t Eat,” turned out to be a gut-wrenching journey through one of the most yin and yang dilemmas I have read in nonfiction. It is an exquisite interweaving of the intense pleasure of eating along with the intense suffering that results when his body rebels. The book is also about love and marriage, about a man’s responsibility to his family, and about a chronically ill person attempting to find meaning in life. Here are 10 things memoir lovers will appreciate in “The Man Who Couldn’t Eat.”

Intertwining of food, life, and pleasure

Even though I obsessively try to understand what makes people tick, the one huge area that escapes my attention is food. To me, food is a source of constant battle between satisfying craving and avoiding fat. This simplistic attitude has left me starved of thoughts about food’s more sublime social and psychological roles.

Reiner has filled me up. By showing me what it’s like not to eat, Reiner takes me on a meditation through these intricate byways of our relationship with food, serving up a banquet of thoughts about this intensely human experience. Here are just a few of the many aspects of food that Jon Reiner shares with brilliant, artistic writing.

–    The tastes and textures of foods that he loves
–    Food shopping as a way to serve his family
–    Preparing food as a romantic collaboration with his wife
–    Feeding and nurturing his children pulls the whole family together
–    Eating together creates a social bonding among friends

Write
How does food enter into your life during the period you want to write about?

Learn about the emotional burdens of being chronically ill

While Jon Reiner defends himself against a deadly intestinal condition called Crohn’s, an even more important battle rages in his mind. He must somehow stop the disease from sucking all the joy from his family and activities. His effort to maintain dignity becomes a crucial step. When he wins the mental game, his life began to fall into place.

Note
Some branches of the medical community acknowledge the mental aspect of chronic illness. To learn more about this introspective approach, read “Full Catastrophe Living,” in which psychologist Jon Kabat-Zinn helps patients learn to live fully despite their physical symptoms.

Write
What situation have you been unable to change, and as a result, had to learn to live with?

An insider’s look at intestinal disease

More than a million people in the United States suffer from inflammatory intestinal disease, and yet, unless you are a healthcare provider, you probably know little about it. Jon Reiner turned the suffering of the illness into a story that the rest of us can appreciate, opening a window into their world.

Write
What sort of specialized condition or situation could your own story show other people? (War, disease, culture, hobby, belief system, family, group, etc.)

Language arts draw me forward

Delicious taste adds to the pleasure of eating, and spicy language adds to the pleasure of reading. Jon Reiner’s word choices, sentences, and metaphors fly beyond the limits of ordinary thought, and make the book fun to read. The richness of language entices me to turn the page, eager to see what comes next.

Story structure: powerful beginning

The book begins with Jon Reiner collapsed, writhing in pain alone in his apartment. The incident starts the whole book moving. His delirium also provides an opportunity to weave in enough backstory to set the stage. The decision about where to start a memoir can be the hardest decision a memoir writer has to make. This memoir’s structure provides a brilliant and well-crafted example.

Story Structure: moving, philosophical ending

Reiner’s whole story is about facing a painful, life threatening, impossible-to-cure disease. Throughout the book, naturally he looks for a cure, but he also attempts to make sense of his situation. Books that ask such large questions often end with a philosophical denouement that sticks with you long after you finish reading. Jon Reiner’s ending is superb and inspiring. He teaches thoughtful lessons and leaves me with the sense that he is a better person than he was at the beginning. When he makes sense of his life, I feel a surge of hope that others can do the same. Good denouements lead to enthusiastic book recommendations.

Notes
Kate Braestrup, in “Here if you Need Me,” provides another profoundly philosophical denouement. In her case, after grieving for her lost husband, she makes observations about the meaning of good and evil.

Blog Post: Ten Reasons I Loved Man Who Couldn’t Eat, Part 2
Click here for Jon Reiner’s Home Page

Click here for The Man Who Couldn’t Eat on Amazon


For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Parent’s Memoir Part 3b, Guide for Ghost Writer’s Interview

by Jerry Waxler
This is part 3b of the essay, “Is this the year to write your parent’s memoir?” Click here for part 3a. In this final part, I give more tips to help you interview your parents so you can generate material for a compelling memoir.

Go deeper with coded family anecdotes

You may already have heard some of the stories for so long, they acquire a rigid sameness, with details and phrases you have heard dozens of times. Use your curiosity to break through the crust of repetition. Ask about other parts of the situation, or where they lived during that time, or how old they were when this event happened, or which parts made them happiest.

For example, I remember my Mom told the story about Dad’s father standing up at their wedding and saying, “To the bride and groom, I give a car.” Her tone of voice when she mimicked him always sounded pompous.  I wish I had asked more about it. “That was an expensive gift. Were you surprised when your new father-in-law told you? Was he wealthy? Did many of your peers have cars? Did you have mixed feelings about accepting such an expensive gift from him? How were you making a living during that period?”

Here are more unasked questions:
–    ”I heard that Grandmom spent her last years in bed. What sorts of situations did that lead to? Tell me about a time when you served her meals there. How did you feel only seeing her in bed?”
–    ”I only knew Grandpop when he was retired. Show me a scene that will help me visualize him. What did you do with him evenings and on weekends? What was it like going to worship by his side?”

Write
What incident have you filed away under “I’ve heard that a hundred times.” Take a page from my unwritten book, and ask your own parents questions while there is still time. Write questions that would help you see it more completely.

Break taboos

Over the years, you have learned to avoid topics your parents prefer not talking about. In order to get the story,  you need to break these taboos. Consider James McBride’s memoir “Color of Water.” His mother had angrily told him to mind his own business whenever he asked her about his past. As she grew older, he realized her past was going to die with her and he grew increasingly insistent. He finally convinced her to talk. From their interviews emerged one of the hallmarks of the memoir generation. As a son, McBride was grateful, and as a reader, so was I.

When your parents express reluctance:

–    Let them know how much you want to understand their story.
–    Point out that no one is perfect, so there’s no point in pretending they were. Why not turn take advantage of all that experience and turn it into a good story?
–    There is power in revealing the truth. For one thing, you don’t have to worry about hiding secrets. And for another, when you share your hardships you also share the courage it took to overcome them. [For more tips about responding to their objections, click here.]

Review and Edit

After each session, you face the technical hurdle of transcribing it to typewritten material so you can edit. If you don’t want to type it yourself, consider hiring someone to do this tedious work. A good place to look for such resources is on the website of the Association for Personal Historians. (APH) [www.personalhistorians.org]. Some people have had success speaking into the software called Dragon Naturally Speaking which converts speech into text.
When you have the interviews in written form, you can weave the information into scenes that readers can enter. Insert new material into your chronological file to show how one situation flows into another, and also give you insights into what is missing. When you hit a puzzle, turn it into a question for further rounds of interviews.

Their character takes shape

When you remember things about your family, you are looking back to your own childhood point of view. To write your parents’ memoir, you need to see those events through their memories, not yours. Try to set yourself aside and listen to the way they explain it, even if it is substantially different from the way you remember it. In fact, this entire project is going to help you enter their frame of reference, seeing the world as they did.

Once they start talking, they may share reminiscences about things they had not discussed in years, joining you in bursts of collaborative energy. As you pull together scenes and link them together, their budding story gradually takes shape. How far this goes will depend on your artistic drive and tenacity, and on their willingness to explore the psychological and social forces that shaped them. The more you polish it, deepen it, and structure it, the more readable it will become.

Wherever you decide to stop, you will find that through the course of the project you have gained understanding, and helped them connect some of the dots in their own past experiences. What started as a literary or historical exercise ends as an opportunity to build intimacy and mutual respect. It’s true that writing a memoir takes time and to achieve your goal you must overcome emotional hurdles. But in the end, everyone wins.

Note:
If you don’t have the time and do have the money, you could hire a writer to do the research and create the book of their lives. To find a writer or videographer for your life story, contact Association of Personal Historians.
Notes
For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Parent’s Memoir Part 3a, Guiding a Ghost Writer’s Interview

by Jerry Waxler
This is part 3a of the essay, “Is this the year to write your parent’s memoir?” Click here for part 2, Answering Parents’ Objections to Writing Their Memoir.

Writing your parent’s memoir is a big project. To make it more manageable, break it into steps. First, write the old familiar anecdotes and place them in chronological order. Take your time, digging up the snips and glimpses you have heard over the years. Brainstorm with siblings, cousins, and with your parents to make sure you have everything.

Next, begin to work with your parents to develop the timeline. Ask them to go through the years and list the dates of important events: when were they born, changed schools, moved, married, had children, got their first job, or other any milestones they feel are crucial. As you put these events into your file, you can check to see if your anecdotes are in order. “Did that come before or after the move to the new home?” By the time you finish this second step, you will have a wonderful repository of what you know, and when it all took place.

Seeing these story fragments come together will stir new questions. How did they transition from one segment of their lives to another? What were the underlying emotional drivers? Who were the other important characters? What did places look like? To turn the fragments into a readable story, you will shift from a left-brain researcher to a right-brain explorer.

Interview Prompts

To learn who your parents were, you will need to learn a wider range of their experiences, such as jobs, sports, dating, illness, siblings, art, hobbies, and so on. Along with the factual information, you will need to learn about emotions, such as loves, fears, and hopes.
Don’t expect to find all this information methodically. Instead, start loosely, let them talk freely. During editing you can organize the material. This is the same method I recommend for writing a memoir. When you research your own memoir, stir up lively anecdotes by asking yourself questions called “writing prompts.” For example, you ask yourself to describe each of the houses you lived in, or describe situations when your hair or clothing style was especially important.

You can use a similar strategy when conducting interviews, asking stimulating “interview prompts.” For example,
–    ”Tell me all about your education.”
–    ”What was Grandmom like in the kitchen?”
–    ”What was it like going out on dates in those days?”

“When did your hair became part of a story. Did it ever fall out, change color, or did someone say something flattering or rude about it?” You are likely to generate a fun, readable scene that will bring the past to life.

Growing your skill as an interviewer

Your style of listening plays an important role. Try to emulate your favorite television or radio interviewers. A good interviewer knows how to respond to the vagaries of conversation, steering between the extremes of too much and too little direction. If you exert too much control, you stifle authenticity and miss surprises. Too little direction allows disorganized, flabby rambling.
Strike a balance between these extremes. If they lead you into new territory, relax and see where they are heading. By staying with them, you can take advantage of potentially important inner associations. If you decide they are drifting away from useful material, for example philosophizing about the economy or complaining about the neighbors, you can gently steer them back to the task at hand.

Richer detail makes better reading

If your interviewee tends to speak in terms of ideas, summaries, and overviews, their memories won’t allow a reader inside their experience. To write compelling scenes, ask for more sensory information, dialog, and thought processes. “What did you see, hear, taste, touch and smell?” In addition to the senses, ask them about their introspective world. If they don’t tell you much about their feelings, ask follow-up questions.
–    What did you want?
–    What did you fear?
–    What got in the way?
–    What did you do in order to get back on track?

For example, if they say, “When we moved, I felt disoriented.” You could say, “Could you describe where you were and what it looked like.” It might take a few tries but eventually you could change this to, “When I walked into the new house, the painters still had their scaffolding up, the plywood floors were covered in splattered paint and cigarette butts. I started to cry.”

In Part 3b, I continue with suggestions for interviewing strategies that will generate a readable memoir.

Notes
For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Answering Parents’ Objections to Writing Their Memoir

by Jerry Waxler
This is part 2 of the essay, “Is this the year to write your parent’s memoir?” Click here for part 1. Click here for part 3a, Guiding a Ghost Writer’s Interview, and Click here for part 3b

When you ask your parents if you can write their history, they might block you with statements like: “Let sleeping dogs lie,” or “I can’t remember all of that,” or “No one would care.” Instead of letting these objections frustrate you, use them as conversation starters. “Really?” you say. “Tell me more about what you mean.” Let them explain why remembering makes them uncomfortable. By quietly listening, you will change the mood from a debate to a collaboration, and will shed more light on their relationship to the past. When they finish, offer comforting, reassuring reasons why you want to work with them to overcome these obstacles. Here are a few insights that might help you address some common concerns about writing a memoir.

Writing my memoir means my life is over
After a visit with my parents, I stood up to go. My mother expressed her frustrated with the lack of physical affection between me and my father and insisted that we hug. As I put my arms around him, he laughed nervously and exclaimed. “What? Am I dying?” He implied that a hug meant the end of his life, when in fact it was intended to be a celebration. Many people make a similar mistake about memoir writing, assuming it means that life is over. When you take the time to write one, you realize that it lets you reap life’s lessons and joys.

I’m too boring
When I grew up, my parents apparently believed we ought to hide anything that makes us look different. They wanted to look average. People who grew up in that generation became so accustomed to pretending they were like everyone else, that they came to believe it themselves.

In the twenty first century, our fascination with memoirs has flipped that convention upside down. In the Memoir Age, we have become curious about other people and assume they are curious about us. Instead of hiding messy emotions in order to appear boring, we reveal internal conflicts that bring us to life.

Hidden within ordinary life, you will discover that you are utterly unique. For example, my childhood in a row home in Philadelphia seemed thoroughly ordinary. Perhaps my after-school job at my dad’s drugstore made me different from most of my peers. I didn’t know anyone else who worked for their father. Digging deeper, I recall my dad’s brother who had achondroplasia, or dwarfism. When I was a teenager, I went with Uncle Harry to help him collect rent from the apartment buildings my grandfather owned, and I felt disturbed by the children who stopped and stared at his short legs and head too large for his body. Harry’s problem was visible to everyone, but Dad’s nephew, Jules, was another matter. Handsome, athletic, and a brilliant scholar, Jules graduated medical school by the age of 21, and was a psychiatrist by the time he was 24, when some secret turmoil caused him to hang himself. The family tried to cover up the tragedy, writing Jules out as if he never existed. Before the memoir age, it seemed natural to hide these facts. Now, I wish my father had been a memoirist, and left a record of how these complex experiences made him feel.

I have read and studied 200 memoirs, and continue to be fascinated by the enormous variety of human experience. Memoir authors write about growing up, about families, hardship, war, travel, spirituality, and so on. By sharing their authors’ lives, memoirs promise to deepen and expand our ability to live together on this planet.

I refuse to criticize my parents
To write about your parents, you must break down two sets of facades. The ones that block them from admitting to you that they are real people, and the ones that block them from admitting their own parents are real, as well.

Many people believe it’s a sin to criticize their parents. As a result they are stuck with shallow, unexplored images. I am glad that we are beginning to open our minds to an honest evaluation of those relationships . According to child psychiatrist Daniel Siegel, we need our parents’ stories in order to stay healthy ourselves. Authentic stories allow us to honor our parents for who they really are, rather than some glossy, idealized image.

To open up about their younger years, your parents will have to accurately portray their relationship with their parents. Certainly they might need some convincing. Let them see that you are not looking to blame anyone but only want to understand the realities in which your ancestors lived. By convincing them to reveal their childhood experience, you will be encouraging them to develop more compassionate relationships with their parents just as you are trying to do yourself.

What’s the point of returning to the past?
At first it might seem logical that writing a memoir would detract from focus on the present. However, almost everyone already keeps a photo album for the purpose of hanging on to the past. Flipping through the album, you glimpse echoes of the past and savor its pleasure.

Beneath the smiles in those photos were more complex, ambiguous feelings. Writing awakens that complexity. Perhaps fear of writing about the past is a way to try to resist the pain that might be lurking under the surface. If your parents are attempting to make hard times disappear by pretending they never happened, their strategy cannot possibly succeed. Burying emotional pain is like burying toxic waste. When it emerges from its hiding place, it is still poisonous. By writing about it, you can, help them disarm it and find embedded lessons, forgotten friendships, and the strength that carried them through.

By getting those earlier times on paper, you give them the opportunity to add meaning and order to what otherwise might seem like a chaotic batch of memories. I have found that memoir writing is compatible with a vibrant, energetic focus on the present moment.

My sister has it all wrong
With stunning regularity my mom and her sister argued about their family memories. Mom said something about her parents’ unhappy marriage and my aunt would vehemently disagree. “That’s not the way it happened.” A battle ensued, each of them intent to prove her version to be true and the other false.

To accommodate heated differences of opinion, interview the warring parties separately. Listen openly to both versions. You will no doubt favor one interpretation over the other, but keep your favoritism to yourself. Maintain harmony by validating each person’s version of the truth. “That’s the way you remember it. I’m okay with that.”

Learn more about the pressures in the family by trying to understand how the hot button works. What words or details throw them into a tizzy? If you can tiptoe around the edgy topic, you may be able to gain insight that helps portray the pressure without raising hackles. If you hoped to learn the Real Truth, such irreconcilable disagreements might frustrate you. However, memoirs do not offer an absolute version of truth, but only each person’s best recollection. That’s what memoir writing is all about. Delving into their recollection helps you understand more about them. And they played such an important part in your life, you learn about yourself as well.  In the next part of this essay, I offer insights into the process of interviewing them.

Notes

Click here to read about “be here now” while writing a memoir.

For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Is this the year to write your parent’s memoir?

Jerry Waxler

This is part 1 of the essay. Click here for part 2, Answering Parents’ Objections to Writing Their Memoir.

Click here for part 3a, Guiding a Ghost Writer’s Interview, and Click here for part 3b

During dinner, my dad told endless stories about the characters who came into his corner drugstore in North Philadelphia. His shoptalk intrigued me so much that I started to work there every weekend, and extended hours during the summer. Through high school, I spent more time with my father than I did with my friends. By the time I left for college, I knew everything about Dad’s daily grind, but I never asked him about his earlier life, and he never volunteered.

Decades went by, during which I struggled to find myself. By the time I became curious about his early life, it was too late. He died without telling me anything about how he had come to own a drugstore, or what it was like to be the son of a Russian Jewish immigrant. Sometimes I wonder if my ignorance of his younger years contributed to my own confusion. If we had established a storyline about the challenges of going from boy to man, I could have relied on him instead of making so many mistakes on my own.

In my dad’s generation, it was normal for parents to pretend they were never young. Nowadays, that social convention is changing rapidly. With each passing year, our cultural interest in memoirs grows and our fear of revealing ourselves fades. This trend to see life as a story has opened many people to their own past, as well as their parents’.

If you decide to write your parents’ story, you will follow many of the same steps you would if you were writing your own. Gather facts and anecdotes and place them in chronological order, and then look for the psychological power that will draw a reader from one page to the next.

The first step is to gather the anecdotes you already know and type them into a file. When you arrange them in chronological order, you’ll begin to transform isolated events into a continuous narrative. You’ll reveal insights about how one thing led to another, and you’ll see a shape that you might not have noticed before. If your parents are able and willing to talk about themselves, you can join the growing legion of people who know that now is the right time to

Of course, there are plenty of reasons to procrastinate. In addition to the challenge of finding time and energy, you also must overcome anxiety about asking them so many personal questions. Perhaps they don’t really want to talk about their lives? Interviewing requires a different form of conversation than most of us are accustomed to. I will share tips about  overcoming objections and interviewing in later parts of this essay. If you are motivated to achieve the goal, learning the skills is merely a step along the way.

To counter the reasons to stall, focus on the many reasons to proceed. When you see their lives unfold as a story, you will gain a deeper insight into their humanity. They had hopes, desires, pressures from their parents, and if they were like most people, they defied their parents in ways that may still cause shame. Informed by this new information, you will understand them and also gain insights to yourself. And during the course of the conversations, you will have an opportunity for intimacy, breaking through some of the posturing that separates parents from children.

A memoir is more than a sequence of information. After you gather the information, you still have to find its shape.  To do it well, you need to think like a story writer. Look for unifying concepts, dramatic tension, and beginnings, middles, and endings. Your search for artistic elegance will force you to go deeper. Stories are built on the unfolding of psychological stakes, so to write a good story you must understand what makes your characters tick.

Even though I arrived at my curiosity about my own parents too late to learn about their early life, they emerged as characters in the pages of my memoir. For the first time, I imagined the pride my father might have felt when his son chose to work at the drugstore instead of playing with friends. And then, again for the first time, I wondered what disappointment he must have felt when I drifted off to my troubled, chaotic quest. These speculations awaken a more complex, rounded impression of his journey than I had before I began writing.

If you decide that this is the year to write about your parents, you will discover them as important characters in your own story, and reveal a mysterious resonance between your real life and the literature you create. As you develop your skills and experience as the author of their stories, you will gain deeper insights into your relationship with them than you ever dreamed possible.

Recommended memoirs about parents by children

Cherry Blossoms  in Twilight by Linda Austin
Ghost written memoir of her mother’s life starting with childhood in Japan before and during World War II.

More About Linda Austin’s Cherry Blossoms: Interview Part 1
Click here for Part 2 of my interview with Linda Austin
Click here for Part 3 of my interview with Linda Austin

Reading my Father by Alexandra Styron
Search for her father’s life. Essentially an autobiography of her famous father William Styron as told through the eyes and voice of his daughter.

Eaves of Heaven by Andrew X. Pham
Ghost written memoir of his father’s life in Vietnam through the late 50s to early 70s.

Thrumpton Hall by Miranda Seymour
By a daughter about her father’s obsession with a British country manor during the deterioration of the British class system.

Dreams of Our Fathers by Barack Obama
Search for a man’s identity by trying to find his father’s story.

Color of Water by James McBride
A man’s search for his own identity by trying to understand his mother’s past.

Mistress’s Daughter by A. M. Homes
and
Lucky Girl by Meiling Hopgood
An adopted daughter struggles to understand her biological parents.

For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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Ghost Wrote Her Mother’s Memoir, Part 3

by Jerry Waxler

This is the third part of an interview with author Linda Austin about her memoir Cherry Blossoms in Twilight. Linda’s mother grew up in Japan before World War II. After the war, she married an American serviceman and then moved to the United States. The memoir is a product of extensive interviews Linda conducted with her mother, and is written in the first person from Yaeko Sugama’s point of view. Click here [link] for my thoughts about the memoir and the first part of my interview with her. I continue the interview here.

Jerry Waxler: Your mother mentions her shame in a few places. For most people, shame creates a barrier so strong we try to hide the subject altogether. How did shame enter into your interviews? What convinced her to open up?

Linda Austin: The divorce was almost unbearably shameful to my mother. She eventually became used to the idea of divorce in America because it became so common, but in the 1970s  it was not. Even my sister and I were embarrassed. My mother still considers her divorce a badge of shame to her and her Japanese family, but because she feels a sense of victimization, she is open to talking about it to me and her American friends, so that wasn’t a problem. Talking about it too much was the problem. There were also some issues with her mother and brother, but again, since it wasn’t her fault she’s okay talking about it–to an American audience. I think I’m the one most embarrassed about the world seeing the intimate life of my mother.

Jerry Waxler: What did you learn about her or her family from the memoir that you didn’t know before?

Linda Austin: I learned why my mother behaves the way she does, which is one reason why I strongly encourage telling life stories. What happens to us affects who we are and how we behave. Once I cried with my mother while parked in the lot of the Social Security building. She had told me about some incidents with her mother, and suddenly I saw how that affected her own behavior toward me. I so wished I had known this long ago so I would have understood her own foibles and not have been so angry. I felt so bad for not understanding.

Jerry Waxler: How did writing and publishing the memoir affect your own sense of identity?

Linda Austin: I think I’ve always had a strong sense of Japanese identity. I mean, I love natto!  [Note: For a definition of natto, see this Wikipedia entry.] When I was a child, there weren’t any brown people in our schools so my sister and I kept our heads low. But my mother enjoyed her Japanese heritage and my dad still loves things Japanese, so my sister and I were exposed to as much Japanese as possible for living in a small lily-white town in the Midwest. Thank goodness for Chicago.

Writing the book and getting lots of compliments and speaking requests really changed me as a person, though. My mother was astonished to see her painfully shy daughter speak comfortably in front of a crowd of about 100. “I didn’t recognize you!” I became much more confident and outgoing and took leadership positions in the Japanese and the writing/publishing communities in St. Louis. I called myself a renaissance woman.

Jerry Waxler: How does it feel going out on book signings and revealing so much about your own mother? Does it feel strange…? Liberating…? Generous…?

Linda Austin: When I’m doing presentations, I think only about the message I want the audience to take away:  that the enemy’s people are the same as you and me inside, and that we should write down our stories for our families. I’m passionate about both those messages. I don’t talk about the divorce or anything too personal. Only when I get home and see another book sold on Amazon, or a review posted, I cringe. It’s not even my story, but I feel a sense of protectiveness towards my mother and a sense that this information belongs to our family, not to strangers. It takes guts to show your lifewritings to others because if you’ve done a good job and told your story in all its glory and pain, it’s like you’re standing naked in front of them. So it really takes guts to publish for the public. Sometimes you don’t think about that until somebody you don’t know wants to read your book.

Jerry Waxler: Have you considered writing a memoir from the point of view of an American girl with mixed race parents trying to come to terms with her own identity?

Linda Austin: I have, but there are too many very good, similar stories published, although with American-born all-Asian-heritage kids struggling to make sense of living in the U.S. with two traditional Asian parents. Even as a half-Japanese, I can relate to Linda Furiya’s Bento Box in the Heartland. Grace Lin did a fabulous job with her children’s chapter books, Year of the Dog and Year of the Rat, which inspire me–those are fiction based on truth, and I would consider doing something like that. Nowadays, diversity is cool, so some of the pressures I felt seem passé.

This finishes part 3 of a 3 part interview

Click here for Part 1 of article and interview with Linda Austin
Click here for Part 2 of my interview with Linda Austin

Notes

Linda Austin’s home page:

Cherry Blossoms in Twilight By Yaeko Sugama Weldon and Linda E. Austin

For brief descriptions and links to all the essays on Memory Writers Network, click here.

To order my step-by-step how-to guide to write your memoir, click here.

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