A Confession: I had no idea what my memoir was about...

until I wrote the last line

Photo by Mike Tinnion on Unsplash

In 2015, I began writing a memoir chronicling my experiences in Ecuador. After a few chapters, my intuition compelled me to set it aside. I recognized that my adventure hadn't developed into the story I was meant to write. I also knew I was not yet the writer that could write it.

Fast forward to 2019, I resumed my writing and completed most of it. Engaging a writing mentor proved instrumental, as she advised me to craft a chapter around a pivotal moment: the moment I knew in my gut that I was in trouble, the moment the metaphorical bubble burst. I knew exactly what that moment was. It was so visceral that I could describe everything about it. I wrote about the damp walls, the burn in my mouth from the aguardiente, the beam of light coming from the full moon, the salty smell of a coastal night, and the feel of the cold cement against my sobbing face. After reading it, my mentor said, "This is your first chapter," prompting a re-write in late 2019.

Despite the emerging structure and flow, articulating the memoir's essence remained elusive. Jeannine Oullette's recent post resonated, highlighting the challenge of identifying our stories' true 'aboutness.' I realized my struggle stemmed from trying to define what the book was about rather than acknowledging what the story was about – a subtle yet crucial distinction causing confusion.

In a recent post from Jeannine Oullette, she wrote, "Why is it so hard to identify and articulate aboutness in our essays and stories? I mean, really articulate aboutness. Which is not the same as theme. It is relatively easy to say, I am writing about grief. Or, this story is about resilience and connection. But if you are reading a book you love, and want to tell me about it and why you love it, those are not the words you would use."

Yet I kept writing as each chapter revealed itself to me. It felt akin to driving a car, surrendering control to a narrative cruise control steering me in the right direction.

Jeannine continues in her post, saying, "And yet, we writers often struggle to speak in such clear, concrete terms about our own essays, stories, and books. But nudging (and even pushing) ourselves in this area helps us write our truest, clearest, most powerful work by bringing us closer to the center of our work's core aboutness."

Honestly, I didn't even know what that last chapter would be. I thought it would end with my move from Ecuador to Portugal. But that is not what the story, nor life, wanted. I am still astounded at the synchronicity of events that led to the unfolding of the ending; events out of my control but affecting me deeply. Those events led the narrative to reveal its essence, captured in the book's last line.

But how to speak of it?

I would tell anyone asking me what the book was about, "It's about a woman who surrenders her power and, through courage and resilience, reclaims ownership of her life." But it was much more, but without some essential details, it sounded like thousands of other books.

Jeannine's post instructs her readers on a successful structure for expressing aboutness through the lens of sales. Her formula - This is a story about ________ who wants ________ because ________. But [obstacles]. And [misbeliefs]. The story starts ________ and ends ________.

I encourage you to read her entire post, especially if you're ready to query or pitch.

However…

Jeannine's post advocates for clarity in expressing a story's aboutness, offering a formula framed in sales terms. While this approach is insightful for querying or pitching, my reflections veer in a different direction.

Let's step back a moment.

When did I know how the story would end?

I knew it when I wrote the last line.

When did I know what the story was about?

I knew it when I wrote the last line.

I'd like to tell you I had a plan, that I knew exactly what I would write. I'd like to tell you that before I took the first step – pen stroke – I knew the road I would travel.

I didn't.

Starting the memoir with the watershed moment, as advised by my mentor, introduced a non-linear narrative. I realized the many events that led me to the destined meeting with my shaman. I acknowledged the unpredictable nature of my writing journey. It would be long and winding, sometimes coming to a dead end and then having to find a way to continue without knowing exactly where I was going but trusting that something within me would write what needed to be written.

A scaffold, shaped by memoir classes from Brooke Warner and Linda Joy Myers, provided structure. Yet, it often felt like a delicate game of Jenga, with one piece's (chapters) movement necessitating adjustments to avoid collapse.

Daily, I asked myself if it flowed and if I had put events in the order that made sense to the reader. I was fortunate to have kept journals throughout the years in Ecuador, so I relied on my memory and notes from that time. When I would go into a rabbit hole of time, the notes would bring me back onto the road.

Inspired by Jeannine's post, I recognized memoir as a denouement, an unraveling of events allowing the writer to make sense of her life. It became a spiritual healing, exposing hidden wisdom behind heartbreak. This process brought emotions, events, questions, and answers into the light, creating something beautiful that could resonate with others, even those I might never meet.

"Blessed Are Those Who Plant Trees Under Whose Shade They Will Never Sit"

Memoirists, I believe, are blessed. We weave stories that tug at heartstrings, creating harmonies that connect us to our readers and possibly transform those who encounter them. At the outset, I had no idea how my book would conclude. Life conspired to provide the ending and its “aboutness.” I find solace in walking a path shared by many others who dared to write and share their stories.