Writing a Memoir, Writing a Biography | Write Your Memoir

Memoirs come in all shapes and sizes. Danny Gregory’s Everyday Matters: A Memoir is a graphic memoir (a memoir told in pictures and words). Danny and his wife, Patti, were happily married and had a 10-month-old son when Patti fell under a subway train and was paralyzed from the waist down.

Everday Matters is a picture-chronicle of Danny’s transformation after Patti’s accident. He realizes he needs to slow down. He teaches himself to draw, and in doing so finds himself looking at the world anew. “You sit and stare at something long enough, and it starts to come to life.” Most people draw badly, he says, because they draw symbols, not what they really see. How could he have missed so much of what was all around him?

Who among us has not had that feeling?

This memoir is a lifetime of eye-opening in just 120 pages. If you’ve ever felt sorry for yourself, if you know someone who is handicapped, if you’ve ever tried to draw or paint, or even if you just love New York City, you must buy this book.

Wake up. What do you really see?

Let me know.

Danny Gregory is the author of several books, including The Creative License. His illustrated journal is read daily by thousands on Dannygregory.com. He lives in New York City with his wife and son.

Was someone in your family a part of history? Recently, at the Self-Publishing Book Expo in New York  I met Donna Nordmark Aviles, a memoirist who has written three books about her grandfather, Oliver Nordmark. Oliver was an orphan in America’s “Orphan Train Movement.”  He traveled from New York City to Kansas in 1906 on what came to be known as an “Orphan Train.”

Even though my parents and grandparents were born and raised in Kansas, they never mentioned the Orphan Trains. In the years between 1854 and 1929, The Children’s Aid Society and the New York Foundling Hospital developed a program whereby up to an estimated 200,000 orphaned, abandoned, or homeless children—mainly in New York City and Boston—traveled by train to adoptive homes in 47 of the 48 states then comprising the United States. The children came to be known as “Orphan Train Riders.”

In Fly Little Bird, Fly! Donna Nordmark Aviles tells the true story of her grandfather Oliver’s early life as an orphan in New York City.  Fly Little Bird, Fly! won the National Best Books 2009 Award.

In Beyond the Orphan Train, Donna Nordmark Aviles describes her grandfather’s life as an Orphan Train Rider. Beyond the Orphan Train won the National Best Books 2009 Award.

Aviles’ third book, Peanut Butter for Cupcakes, focuses on Oliver as an adult. The story describes how he survived with his six children during the 1930s, after the sudden and tragic death of his young wife, Estella. Peanut Butter for Cupcakes was a 2009 Next Generation Indie Book Award Finalist and National Best Books 2009 Award Finalist.

Orphan Train Riders were told not to talk about their past lives. Their collective experiences disappeared from consciousness. Gradually, however, their descendants began to unearth and honor their past.  There is now a museum dedicated to the Orphan Train children, The National Orphan Train Complex, Inc., located in Concordia, Kansas.

Was someone in your family a part of history? Have you asked questions about what happened? Friday, November 27, 2009, is StoryCorps’ National Day of Listening. Its goal is to encourage you to take an hour and record a conversation with someone who is important to you. Why not set aside some time over Thanksgiving to ask, first, whether your loved one played a part in history? If so, what was it like? Were they in a war? Were they dislocated in a natural disaster? Did they take part in protests? Did they witness a famous event?

Let me know how it goes. What questions did you ask?

Happy Thanksgiving!

At the Self-Publishing Book Expo I attended recently in New York, I met three women whose memoirs successfully tackle these potentially overpowering topics:

1. leaving your country of origin;
2. growing up in a faraway land;
3. being raped or sexually abused.

Past experiences such as these may seem too big to write about comfortably. But perspective changes everything. Check out these three memoirs and how each woman’s viewpoint has shaped her storytelling.

  (more…)

I liked this official, political autobiography more than I thought I would. I had expected something staid, so I was disarmed by the book’s openness. It is far from the whole truth and it reads like it. But the book has a lyrical charm that is full of heartache and blessing. Perhaps that’s the Irish in Ted Kennedy.

There is a loving, nostalgic quality to the first half of the book, where Kennedy details growing up in the Kennedy clan. True Compass is as close as we will ever come to having memoirs by his three older brothers:  Joe (who was killed in action in 1944), Jack (who was assassinated in 1963), and Bobby (who was assassinated in 1968). Ted looked up to them from the viewpoint of a much-younger brother. Jack (who was 15 years older) was his godfather, mentor, and guide to Washington politics. The book is full of examples of Jack’s thoughtful tutelage and care. Ted Kennedy doesn’t seem to have been as close to Bobby. As the caboose in a long line of overachievers, Ted felt he couldn’t live up. “As I think back to my three brothers, and about what they had accomplished before I was even out of childhood,” he writes, “it sometimes has occurred to me that my entire life has been a constant state of catching up.”

Kennedy had his share of childhood hardship. I was surprised that Kennedy attended 10 schools between 1937 (age 5) to 1950 (age 18). He was a mediocre student who never stayed at any school long enough to form friendships. At one point, he was sent to a Catholic boarding school in Riverdale,  New York, where he witnessed nightly sexual abuse of boys by an abusive housemaster, which he says he luckily missed.

The second half of the book is a more traditional political autobiography, except that Ted Kennedy comes across as a man who got lost along the way. He says he could not cope after Jack and Bobby were murdered. It never occurred to him he was being overwhelmed by grief and could get help. He says he kept it all inside and tried to keep going. He drank too much. His life spun out of control. Although he admits to his weaknesses and foibles generally, when he comes up to the brink of the serious scandals, such as Chappaquiddick, he stops at the edge and sticks to the script. I’m not sure it’s reasonable to have expected more, but I was still disappointed.  By the time he finally found himself, Kennedy had figured out how to deepen his love of country, family and friends, and work. He had also figured out that he needed to be married to a buddy, not a trophy wife.  He devotes a chapter to Victoria Reggie Kennedy, making it clear that without her, he would never have been the man he became.

Selecting food as a memoir topic is always a good way to get un-stuck if you are stuck. Food looms large in our childhood memories and brings back so many associations. For example, I always think of Mom when I see a lima bean. She cooked them until their insides were sawdust. I wrapped them in my napkin. I stuffed the napkin into the top of the table leg. At the top, just under the table, the leg attached to the table with three prongs, making a little nest. I got away with disposing of the lima beans that way for awhile. But my brother, Tom, wasn’t as lucky. He says he dumped his lima beans down the garbage disposal, but Mom found out and served them to him again the next day. 

In “Hungry Men” in the November 9, 2009, issue of Fortune, Daniel Okrent reviews just-released food memoirs by two “world-class eaters.” The books are: Eating by Jason Epstein and Far Flung and Well Fed by R. W. Apple, Jr. (FYI: Neither author has a website. R. W. Apple, Jr. died in 2006.) Check out the titles at your local online or bricks-and-mortar bookstore.

Epstein and Apple apparently had refined palates and enjoyed fine meals. In contrast, the stories (and memories) in my “recipe memoirs” are often better than the food. One of my favorite recipe memoirs is “How Train Wreck Got Its Name.”

What follows is a recipe memoir I have shared with my family, which always brings lots of smiles.

How Train Wreck Got Its Name

My mother, Mary Jewett, used to make a macaroni casserole we called Train Wreck. I thought it was Tom, my little brother, who gave Train Wreck its name. But Tom says Mom always credited George C. Papanicolaou.

George was a Union College student from Greece, who  lived with us at 3 Douglas Road in Schenectady, NY, our home from 1962-1965. George had the third-floor room with the Palladian windows under the front gable. George is now a math professor at Stanford. As Mom told it, George bounded down into the kitchen, looked in the pot on the stove, and said, “Mrs. Jewett, that looks like a train wreck!” To complicate matters, Aunt Ellie (Mom’s sister-in-law, Ellie Jewett) says, no, it was her son, Rick, who christened Train Wreck.

Train Wreck has many variations and names, including American Chop Suey and Hungarian Goulash. Here’s my recipe.

TRAIN WRECK

1. 1 lb. ground beef

2. 2 T oil

3. 1 onion, finely chopped (or more to taste)

4. 1-2 cloves garlic, finely chopped (or more to taste)

5. Other spices. I buy from Penzeys: Penzey’s Italian Herb Mix (1 T),  Penzey’s Granulated Garlic Powder (2 T), Penzey’s Onion Powder (2 T), and Penzey’s Bay Leaf Seasonings (2 t); sugar (2 t); 1 bay leaf (remove before serving); and salt & pepper.

6. 1 26.5-oz. can or  26-oz. jar of spaghetti sauce

7. 1 28-oz. can crushed tomatoes

8. 1 16-oz. box macaroni, cooked al dente and drained (I like shells)

Cook beef, drain fat, and set aside. Simmer items # 2-5 until onions are soft. Add water as needed. The longer you simmer this before adding the rest of the ingredients, the better it tastes. Add the meat and items # 6-7 and simmer at least 10 minutes. Add item # 8. Correct seasoning.

Do you have a food memories that would make a good memoir? Let me know.

I was recently contacted by Shawn Nicholls, the on-line publicist at William Morrow. William Morrow is the publisher of The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope, by William Kamkwamba and Bryan Mealer. Because I had reviewed Three Cups of Tea, Shawn asked me if I would review The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind.

I’m glad I said yes.

William Kamkwamba grew up in Masitala village, a small village near the city of Kasungu, in Malawi. Poverty, lack of resources, back-breaking work, and a corrupt government were the everyday realities in William’s life. On their own, they would have been enough to break anyone, but on top of them, William also faced drought, famine, and starvation. His dog starved to death, as did at least one of his classmates. There so little to eat, villagers ate maize husks left in the dirt.

And yet, William pursued his dream of building a windmill to create electricity. He was a self-taught tinkerer who repaired radios, and an avid reader. He devoured Explaining Physics, which he borrowed from a small local lending library. With an insatiable drive and an avid desire to learn, but with very little help from anyone else, he eventually built the windmill, which supplies electricity to his family and village. Thist accomplishment may not sound like much, but in Malawi, only 2% of the population has electricity. And William was born in 1988, so he’s only in his 20s.

An old philosophical debate asks the question: are we living in the best of all possible worlds or the worst of all possible worlds? I like to think, as Adin Steinsaltz has said, that we are living in the worst of all possible worlds in which there is still hope. This book is about being inventive in nearly impossible circumstances. It will inspire you. I highly recommend it.

An email about Lilly Friedman’s parachute wedding dress is making the rounds again. The email is un-credited, or I would attribute the source, but I can confirm that Lilly Friedman’s wedding dress is for real and is exhibited at The Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.

Over 60 years ago, Lilly (Lax) Friedman was a DP (displaced person) in Bergen Belsen Displaced Person’s camp. Lilly had survived Auschwitz, a forced labor camp, a death march, and Bergen Belsen itself. In 1946, when Lilly Lax and Ludwig Friedman decided to marry, Ludwig bartered two pounds of coffee beans and a couple of packs of cigarettes for a German parachute. With the help of a seamstress, Lilly created the white wedding gown she was determined to have when she and Ludwig stood under the chuppah (wedding canopy). Many other DP brides borrowed Lilly’s dress. How many? “I stopped counting after 17,” says Lilly. For these women, the dress symbolized a return to normalcy after the Holocaust. Lilly’s father and her two brothers were exterminated immediately upon arriving at Auschwitz. Lilly and two sisters survived and live near each other now in Brooklyn, NY.

As a friend of mine said, “Amazing that she kept the dress.” That’s something I would have done. I still have the kippah (yarmulke) from the first bar mitzvah I ever went to. Do you have a beloved object you’ve kept all these years because of what it means to you? Perhaps an item of clothing, a watch, a medal, or a souvenir? Why not write a memoir about it? Write down “who, what, when, where, why, and how.” Where did you get it? Who made it? What does it mean to you? Tell its story. Lilly’s parachute wedding dress is a great example of an object with a story to tell. What is your parachute wedding dress?

My parachute wedding dress is an apron that belonged to my paternal great-great grandmother, Martha Anne (Moore) Gott (born 12-25-1834 died 3-9-1917, age 82). A few years ago, I was given Martha’s apron on a family visit to the Gotts in Montrose, Colorado (my late father’s cousin, the late Max Gott, and wife, Darlene Gott). Darlene gave it to me and said, “Her name was Martha. You should have this.”

I want to preserve the apron and possible display it, but don’t know how. Any ideas? Let me know.

Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes, died over the weekend. Our friend, Robert Siegel, M.D., studied English with McCourt in a New York City public high school. I remember Robert saying McCourt was supportive, engaging, and fun. As a teacher, he spent time to give a little extra to his students, took them out, got to know them. As Hillel Italie said of Angela’s Ashes in today’s AP obituary, the 1996 book was “perhaps the ultimate case of the non-celebrity memoir.” But underneath its Irish charm,  Angela’s Ashes was an expression of defiance. ”I refused to settle for a one-act existence,” said McCourt. He set out to write about his past, but would not let himself be bound by it. He went on–after 30 years of teaching–to describe his childhood in a book that has been published in 25 languages, in 30 countries, selling millions of copies, winning the Pulitzer Prize. Angela’s Ashes was the beginning of a long and successful second act. An ordinary man, an extraordinary memoir.

My passion is helping everyday people write their personal memoirs. I expect most of these memoirs will be self-published, distributed to family and friends. Unfortunately, times have changed since McCourt published Angela’s Ashes and unless you’re a celebrity, you probably won’t get your memoir published by a commercial publisher. (That’s what so great about all the print-on-demand, self-publishing options, which I will write more about in subsequent blogs).

Frank McCourt taught us that we are all ordinary. But our memoirs can be extraordinary. If you  limit the scope of your memoir to a small topic (e.g., dad’s hearing aids), if you write honestly (it made you mad when he turned them off during fights with your mother), and if you include descriptions of concrete details (his hearing aids used to have a wire going over his head like a headband), your memoir can make the ordinary extraordinary. That’s because no one perceives the world exactly as you do.

Here’s to ordinary people writing extraordinary memoirs. And to saying “no” to a one-act existence. Do you think your memoir will be an act of defiance? Let me know.

When I moved to Japan, my name changed to Maa-sa Jyu-e-tto, and was written in katakana (not Roman letters), the alphabet reserved for foreign words imported into Japanese. Out of deference to the exigencies of Japanese, I (mis)pronounced my name the way the Japanese did. (more…)

When it comes to close encounters of the animal kind, you don’t have to be Captain “Sully” Sullenberger to have had one. Our friend Frank was accosted by a swan which didn’t leave him alone until he punched it in the beak. I’ve had two deer encounters, both of which were close calls. In the first, if I had been a foot ahead of where I was walking, the buck would have landed on me and might have killed me. In the second, a deer came out of nowhere one warm November night and struck my car, smashing my driver’s-side mirror, door, and window. At first, all I saw was a dark shape. I thought I had killed someone. If it had landed on my windshield, I might have lost control of the car.  Close calls that turned out well. But what if?

What close encounters of the animal kind have you had? Were they funny? Scary? Why not write a memoir about it?

Let me know how it goes.