Memoirous

Recently, there’s been a dust-up in the publishing world: Controversy surrounding the successful memoir The Salt Path by Raynor Winn. It is one thing to use novelesque devices in order to pen a literary memoir. To cast an alter ego or stand-in for yourself. To write the memoir in third person. To change names to protect the identity of certain people. For clarity’s sake to eliminate characters or even to create a composite—as long as you alert the reader, such as in an introduction or disclaimer in the front matter. This is all acceptable. Real problems occur when one intentionally writes fiction and then tries to pass it off as memoir. When one writes in order to deceive then that writer has crossed a line. They not only harm their own reputation, but also break trust with their readers. Imposters such as James Frey with his A Million Little Pieces was intentional in his deception. Frank McCourt in Angela’s Ashes might have gone around a few curves in spinning his memoir—but ...

O Holy Night is a well-known Christmas carol composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem "Minuit, chrétiens" (Midnight, Christians). I remember it as the finale to the Christmas Eve program at the Presbyterian church we attended in Kettering. It can be a long night until the next morning to hold off on opening presents. At least the car ride and time at church filled those tense, anxious hours. O Holy Night seems to be the perfect vehicle for a soloist, and, indeed, the woman who sang it annually was a trained professional, the daughter of one of the congregants, who came down from New York City. I remember one snowy Christmas in particular when there was speculation whether she would make it in time. Yet, always, in the end she rose up from the robed choir to take her place at the podium. The lights in the church were dimmed, lit mainly by the Advent candles, all of them now burning. The coughing and fidgeting ceased—in expectation. Or perhaps, we were all t...

The Autobiography of Charles Darwin and Selected Letters , edited by Francis Darwin, New York: Dover Publications, 1958. (First published in 1892.) Schuyler had a New Year’s Day tradition of going to the Hazan’s (Jane Freilicher)—in fact one of his last Diary entries talks about getting dressed to go over to their soiree. On January 1, 1968 he wrote about starting Darwin’s autobiography. This notation eventually turned into the poem, “Empathy and New Year”. Here is a snippet: Got coffee and started reading Darwin: so modest, so innocent, so pleased at the surprise that he should grow up to be him. How grand to begin a new year with a new writer you really love. It is the intimate simplicity that I love about Schuyler’s poems. I am given a glimpse into the interior of someone living generations past and dwelling in a landscape foreign to me. It is the mundane details that give me a landing place, a space to inhabit. I feel solidly anchored in New York City la...

We are about to turn the calendar page to March. Every February reminds me of James Schuyler. Lots of things remind me of his work and words.   Here is a poem written on February 28 (1969) that reflects a memory from years gone by, the glow of remembered light. “February” A chimney, breathing a little smoke. The sun, I can’t see making a bit of pink I can’t quite see in the blue. The pink of five tulips at five p.m. on the day before March first. The green of the tulip stems and leaves like something I can’t remember, finding a jack-in-the-pulpit a long time ago and far away. Why it was December then and the sun was on the sea by the temples we’d gone to see. One green wave moved in the violet sea like the UN Building on big evenings, green and wet while the sky turns violet. A few almond trees had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes out of the blue looking pink in the light. A gray hush in which the boxy trucks roll up Second Aven...

Memoirous is about memories and using memories to tell stories. Memories are also unreliable. We unintentionally leave things out or embellish. Sometimes the more accurate memories have the ring of truth to them. What seems to resonate the most are universal experiences where readers can exclaim: Hey! The same thing happened to me! Sometimes we end up just giving life and words to the mundane and everyday. A few years back I picked up a small “poetry” book by Kyle White. It isn’t exactly poetry but more a hybrid of observations, comments, essays, criticisms, and poetry. There is line variation. This book is monumental in its scope: Wisconsin. I know, that line made me laugh too. It is about bundling up in snowsuits. Walking home with your cheeks stinging. Snot crusting inside your muffler. It is about the horror of returning to a normal schedule after Christmas break. Kyle White employs everyday memories in crafting Wisconsin: river of grace . Coming from the ...

This blog is about Memoir, about turning memories into words, building a portfolio of writing that can be used for a novel or non-fiction. All experience is fodder for literature. That’s why the crazy comp 101 English teachers told us: Write what you know. That can be intimidating when you realize you don’t know much of anything. That’s okay, take a deep breath, and let your mind go. Flash. That insignificant moment might just be the thing. The springboard that launches a thousand words. So how did LH come to write her groundbreaking Raisin in the Sun ? A native of the southside of Chicago her father moved the family into an all-white neighborhood called Woodlawn—and all-hell broke out. Eventually after firebombing and rocks through the windows the family moved out to one of her father’s other real estate ventures. But the memory never faded. And, after her father passed away, she surmised that the stress of that situation played a part in his death. His heart was broken. Lorr...

The Greatest Showman Director:  Michael Gracey Starring: Hugh Jackman Zac Efron Michelle Williams Zendaya The Greatest Showman is a made for the movies musical about P.T. Barnum, the king of bunk and humbug, the creator of the Barnum and Bailey Circus. The late great circus. Kids now will grow up wondering what’s a circus. This is the kind of movie I wouldn’t normally go to, but, what the hey, it was 7 below zero, I was out with the girls, and I was desperate for something different. For another world. For magic. Besides it was $5 Tuesday. From beginning to end this movie extravaganza is a miracle of motion. It has all the exuberance and appeal of a great, big Glee. A show stopper. What does that phrase even mean? But from the first number to the credits it was engaging. No slow moments. And the theater was packed. People wanted to see this movie. Whole families, classesmates, youth groups, etc date-night. I was surprised as I’d not really h...

Great writing prompts -- no more writer's block! By Georgina on December 5, 2017 As writers, sometimes we have "writer's block." When this happens we look for writing inspiration to come in different ways. Hertenstein's book does a great job in giving writing prompts that really make you "think" and feel inspired in a "new way" focusing on memories from your past. I found this interesting, because I have not thought to write a memoir, but her book made me "think" and "remember" stories I could write and share with others. One clever idea was to write about what we see in the "Frozen Food Isle." I highly recommend this book - every day you'll have a new story to write! Excellent! ORDER A COPY TODAY!

Great for writers and teachers of writing. By Michelle Schaub on November 15, 2017 In this clever craft book, Hertenstein outlines a plan for busy writers to build a memoir in little flashes- those seemingly inconsequential moments that, when strung together, create a powerful memoir. Hertenstein provides a series of accessible yet thought-provoking prompts that can be completed in "the time it takes you to brush your teeth." Great for writers and teachers of writing as well. ORDER A COPY TODAY!

Don't Create Without It! By StalkyReader on November 21, 2017 While Jane Hertenstein’s book Flash Memoir is ostensibly geared toward writers, this book is a must-have for anyone who is creating art of any kind. Filled with amazing historical factoids (check out Hemingway’s lost valise or Wordsworth’s almost-permanent houseguest, Samuel Coleridge) as well as the writer’s personal examples of following her own advice, the main thrust of the book is to get the reader’s creativity flowing, and boy howdy, the author succeeds at that. Each little chapter or section describes something that can be used as a prompt for creativity, be it old postcards, newspaper headlines, websites filled with breathtaking photos, or basic, evocative stimuli such as certain smells or sudden memories. The author then gives an example of how this prompt can be used, frequently using her own posts to illustrate her point. And what a collection of riches she offers, from exploring deserted or “ghost”...

Textbook (not exactly amemoir) By Amy Krouse Rosenthal Dutton, 2016 Not exactly a memoir, told in the form of a textbook. A cute gimmick. But it works. Really, really works. We get patches, glimpses where we nod our head in recognition, then slowly, think: I could be writing about that except— I never once—and here it is strange because all I do at this blog is tell people to record the ordinary—except I didn’t think it was important. The very meaning of ordinary. We don’t recognize it until it is gone. Just like, you always thought there would be, would never go away, could never imagine the world without, until a sighting becomes a cause for celebration. Things that used to be always: Monarch butterflies Worms on the sidewalk after a rain Bookstores So next time you get that niggling thought—jot it down. You might not end up with a New York bestselling Textbook, but you will have a record of having lived a life. ...

1)  A Very Short Story Contest It may be apocryphal, but the story goes that Ernest Hemingway won a bet by writing a short story that ran fewer than ten words. One version of the story places the bet at the famed Algonquin round table. Whether true or not, there is an actual bet-winning short story attributed to Hemingway: For sale. Baby Shoes. Never worn. You have to admit it's pretty good. It builds, and there’s a whole world of background and emotion lurking beneath those words. We would like to make a similar bet with you. Write a great short story in ten words or fewer. (You may use a title, but that goes into the word count.) Submit it to our contest. Entry is free. Winner of the bet gets a free Gotham 10-week workshop.  2)   The Arcanist! We’re a new Medium-based literary magazine that focuses on fantasy and sci-fi flash fiction. We love magical worlds full of dragons and speculative looks at the future, and we think these two genres are important to ou...

Memories have been stirred by the song Carissa by Sun Kil Moon or Mark Kozelek . Mention the state Ohio and today one might be greeted by several responses. Rust-belt. Went for Trump big time. Ground zero for pill mills. Overdose country. Craigslist serial killers. (That last one is not made up.) It has become a place of desperation, where residents felt left behind, misunderstood. Also the pill mills. They were rip[e and ready to be taken advantage of by shyster doctors and lawyers, using them for SSI money. Many have been left behind by an economy not built on manufacturing or mining. The population of the small towns has been decimated—the overdoeses don’t help. But that isn’t the Ohio I remember. Because many of my memories are colored by bike riding ( see even back then I rode way too many miles. Often too far to get home. More than once I had to call my dad from a pay phone to come get me because I was too tired or it was too dark for me to get home.) I remember...

Tim Tintera’s Thesaurus I don’t know when I decided I was going to be a writer. Certainly I was a big reader, always had been and admired many writers, especially Louisa May Alcott. I wanted to be Jo. But that didn’t necessarily translate into being a writer. There must have come a time when it became obvious that it wasn’t a phase. The Jane who wrote poetry and fastidiously kept a journal was going to write her own stories. But first I had to steal Tim Tintera’s thesaurus. What a word! What was this odd kind of book. It was about numbers and words. It was half science and half English. With a smidgen of Latin—at least when it came to the arcane classifications. Yet a thesaurus made sense of the crazy universe. I was maybe a 6 th grader and Tim Tintera was a lot older. Likely an 8 th grader. I played after school with his sister. I might have thought he was cute, when he wasn’t being annoying and a bully. He mostly ignored us. Which was good because when I snuck into his...

When I first came to Chicago in the early 80s I volunteered at a city mission. It was fairly disorganized and chaotic. I never knew from one day to the next what my assignment would be. Often the mission got requests from the elderly for help with household chores. Some of this was ridiculous—they didn’t need help, they needed a bulldozer. I got used to heading out with an address in my pocket expecting anything. I remember wading through an apartment filled thigh-high with trash. Mixed in were bags of money, just randomly tossed about. I wrote about visiting Ida and her vermin-filled apartment. Later she was found dead beneath a blanket of newspapers. ( see "That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do", Spring 2012, Adroit Journal) The point is you didn’t know what you’d get. In these current unsettling times I’ve been having déjà vu. My mind keeps flashing back to past visitation ladies. Back then Ronald Reagan had been elected on a wave of populism. Supposed...

Once Upon a Time: Siena, Italy We had just arrived in Siena and spent the day checking out the candy-cane striped cathedral, duomo, in the historic city center. As evening settled a light rain began to fall. We passed restaurants and read the chalkboard signs out front. We observed diners cozy and warm in their familiar setting, talking and laughing in their native language, while outside, we felt outside. Strangers wanting nothing more than to be inside somewhere, part of this wonderful place. Which seemed impossible. Around us residents hurried carrying groceries, crusty bread, wine for their dinner. We were like a rock in a stream as they flowed by. The drizzle added to the incongruity we felt, blurring street lamps, creating glowing arcs that radiated out to us. Then out of the darkness came a little old lady in a trim-fitting coat navigating the steep cobbled streets. We ran over to her. I extended an arm for her to lean on while my husband lifted an umbrella ove...

Once Upon a Time: Tranås, Sweden I blindly followed Lotta. We were on a bike ride around Lake Sommen. The roads reminded me of driveways, tiny little lanes, some dirt-packed. I couldn’t imagine cars navigating these narrow byways. At some point even Lotta was lost; she stopped to consult with a farmer. Of course I didn’t know what they were saying. Sometimes when traveling I’d often feel an out-of-body experience, as if I was observing myself reacting. This is just one example of how travel transports us out of comfort zones; everything is new and slightly off-kilter. We continued on, pumping up a sudden, steep rise where we entered an emerald forest. Earth and sky were this amazing mossy green. Spongy moss carpeted the forest floor while the tree canopy sheltered us, Only patches of blue sky showed through. Even the tinkling stream nearby gleamed green. Eerily dark, fecund, musky—all my senses were attuned. Lotta explained to me that we were in a mushroom forest and that th...

Once Upon a Time: Goreme, Turkey One time we took a night bus from Selçuk to Goreme, better known as Cappadocia. Just like nomads traveling by night we’d come upon an oasis in the darkness where a squadron of attendants ran out to gas and wash down the exterior of the bus before we moved on into a vacuum. Eventually we arrived in town before sun up. We still didn’t know exactly where we were. That’s how it is with travel—especially in places with little doodley hooks on their letters; I was continually lost, unsure how to pronounce words, what to order to eat, afraid I wouldn’t see the right stuff. Somehow we managed to make it to our hostel . It was early; not a thing was stirring except a cat lounging on a cushion in the unlocked reception office. There was a computer there and I checked my email—though once again I was flummoxed by the foreign keyboard. Nothing was where it should be. I wandered outside. The sky was beginning to lighten, stars were growing dim. Slowly I ...

Hot Flash Friday=Centerville, Ohio Check out my latest appearance in 50-word Stories , literally stories that are 50 words. You try it; write your own flash memory based upon a place you used to live. A once upon a time, and go from there. Right now: write!

Summer is half over. I know hard to believe. But the 4 th of July signals that we are past the solstice of the longest day and once again moving toward shorter days. A list poem is a combination of haiku and the prosaic list. It is an itemization but also creative way of looking at something. Here is an example from my own archives : You know summer is over when —snow piles up on window ACs. You know summer is over when —all the swimming pools are empty hulls. You know summer is over when —the streets glisten from icy rain. You know summer is over when —you shiver stepping out of the shower. You know summer is over when —even the dogs put on jackets. You know summer is over when —the marigolds die. You know summer is over when —they bring the patio umbrella inside. You know summer is over when —the mice run into the house. You know summer is over when —Starbucks begins to advertise their Pumpkin Chai Latte. You know summer is over...