Terry Helwig's Blog - Posts Tagged "moonlight-on-linoleum"
Terry Helwig: One Author’s Adventures in Social Media Book Marketing
Shirley Showalter hosts a popular blog called 100 Memoirs: Because 99 just isn't enough. Shirley asked me to share some of my experiences of book tour with her readers, which I was happy to do. You can check out my essay on her blog at
http://100memoirs.com/2011/11/21/auth...
http://100memoirs.com/2011/11/21/auth...
The Power of Story
Maybe Mama was right. “Never judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”
Since the publication of Moonlight on Linoleum: A Daughter’s Memoir, people have been pulling me aside and quietly telling me about their childhood or the childhood of someone close to them. I’ve heard about the family of a coal miner with ten children living in a cabin without electricity and running water; a refugee who was sent to a concentration camp; a sister addicted to prescription drugs; a son who never heard the words “I love you,” and a husband who survived great hardship and decided, like Tom Robbins: “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
Recently, a member of a book club wrote me: “Everyone loved the book. It generated some amazing conversation about our own childhoods, and a lot of revelations about each other through the conversations. Someone even commented that it was probably the most connected we had felt at book club. I've known some of these women 20 years and learned some new things all because of Moonlight!”
I’m discovering that listening to one another’s stories is often the doorway to love and compassion. Indeed, when we slip our feet into another’s shoes (which memoir allows us to do), we feel with and for the other. A son’s sorrow becomes our sorrow; a daughter’s triumph our triumph. Such is the power of a human story—written or told.
Note: If your book club is reading Moonlight on Linoleum: A Daughter’s Memoir, you can find discussion questions at http://www.terryhelwig.com/discussion...
Since the publication of Moonlight on Linoleum: A Daughter’s Memoir, people have been pulling me aside and quietly telling me about their childhood or the childhood of someone close to them. I’ve heard about the family of a coal miner with ten children living in a cabin without electricity and running water; a refugee who was sent to a concentration camp; a sister addicted to prescription drugs; a son who never heard the words “I love you,” and a husband who survived great hardship and decided, like Tom Robbins: “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
Recently, a member of a book club wrote me: “Everyone loved the book. It generated some amazing conversation about our own childhoods, and a lot of revelations about each other through the conversations. Someone even commented that it was probably the most connected we had felt at book club. I've known some of these women 20 years and learned some new things all because of Moonlight!”
I’m discovering that listening to one another’s stories is often the doorway to love and compassion. Indeed, when we slip our feet into another’s shoes (which memoir allows us to do), we feel with and for the other. A son’s sorrow becomes our sorrow; a daughter’s triumph our triumph. Such is the power of a human story—written or told.
Note: If your book club is reading Moonlight on Linoleum: A Daughter’s Memoir, you can find discussion questions at http://www.terryhelwig.com/discussion...
Beware of Flying with a Copy of Moonlight on Linoleum
I’m pleased to announce that the paperback of Moonlight on Linoleum will debut on bookstore shelves Tuesday, May 1. Only six months have passed since the hardcover debuted last October; however, my publisher moved up the pub date of the soft-cover edition to arrive in time for summer vacations. Now the soft cover can be tucked easily into bags and satchels headed for beaches, parks and airplane rides.
Dare I admit that I would love to see someone sit down beside me on an airplane and pull out a copy of Moonlight on Linoleum? I surmise I could keep quiet for all of 60 seconds. My daughter seems to be afflicted with the same tendency. Just recently, she confessed that she stalked an airline passenger all the way to her seat and excitedly explained to the unsuspecting passenger: My mom wrote the book you’re carrying.
I’m reminded of the time my daughter and I flew first class for a once-in-a-life-time trip to Africa. (If you’ve read Moonlight on Linoleum, you know how important this trip was for me.) I saved enough money to fly my daughter and myself first class so we could sleep on the long overnight trip—I didn’t want to waste a single minute in Africa on jet lag. As my daughter and I slid into our leather seats on the airplane, the other passengers in first class wore ho-hum expressions. They casually shook out their newspapers and thumbed open their books, none of them mine, as they settled in for the long flight. My daughter and I, on the other hand, wore expressions that said something like: Wow, have you ever seen anything like this?
We repeatedly pushed a button that raised and lowered a dividing screen between us. Not only that, we found another button that reclined and retracted our seats into a lounger. It looked like we were experiencing an electrical malfunction, except we seemed to be enjoying ourselves immensely. Whenever the screen descended between us, we passed a bowl of nuts, taking only one, and making sure our little finger curled into propriety. We had almost as much fun in first class as we did on safari in Africa. Almost…
I’m happy to announce that my daughter will be traveling with me once again; this time to New Mexico and Colorado to promote the paperback of Moonlight on Linoleum*. Neither of us is flying first class so we should be fairly inconspicuous—unless someone pulls out a copy of Moonlight on Linoleum.
Then all bets are off.
*If you’re in one of the cities I’m visiting please stop by and say hello. See my travel schedule on the calendar page of my website http://www.terryhelwig.com/calendar.aspx
Dare I admit that I would love to see someone sit down beside me on an airplane and pull out a copy of Moonlight on Linoleum? I surmise I could keep quiet for all of 60 seconds. My daughter seems to be afflicted with the same tendency. Just recently, she confessed that she stalked an airline passenger all the way to her seat and excitedly explained to the unsuspecting passenger: My mom wrote the book you’re carrying.
I’m reminded of the time my daughter and I flew first class for a once-in-a-life-time trip to Africa. (If you’ve read Moonlight on Linoleum, you know how important this trip was for me.) I saved enough money to fly my daughter and myself first class so we could sleep on the long overnight trip—I didn’t want to waste a single minute in Africa on jet lag. As my daughter and I slid into our leather seats on the airplane, the other passengers in first class wore ho-hum expressions. They casually shook out their newspapers and thumbed open their books, none of them mine, as they settled in for the long flight. My daughter and I, on the other hand, wore expressions that said something like: Wow, have you ever seen anything like this?
We repeatedly pushed a button that raised and lowered a dividing screen between us. Not only that, we found another button that reclined and retracted our seats into a lounger. It looked like we were experiencing an electrical malfunction, except we seemed to be enjoying ourselves immensely. Whenever the screen descended between us, we passed a bowl of nuts, taking only one, and making sure our little finger curled into propriety. We had almost as much fun in first class as we did on safari in Africa. Almost…
I’m happy to announce that my daughter will be traveling with me once again; this time to New Mexico and Colorado to promote the paperback of Moonlight on Linoleum*. Neither of us is flying first class so we should be fairly inconspicuous—unless someone pulls out a copy of Moonlight on Linoleum.
Then all bets are off.
*If you’re in one of the cities I’m visiting please stop by and say hello. See my travel schedule on the calendar page of my website http://www.terryhelwig.com/calendar.aspx
Memoir Can Read Like a Novel
A comment I love hearing about Moonlight on Linoleum, is: "Your memoir reads like a novel." This comparison to literary fiction affirms the countless hours I spent constructing floor plans of our trailer house, perusing old photographs with a magnifying glass, locating marriage certificates and divorce decrees, interviewing relatives and friends, and creating an elaborate time line that spanned two decades. My voluminous research became the building blocks for vivid scenes in my memoir that anchored the action of our family's story.
Instead of telling our story in generalities (we lived in a trailer), I tried to invite the reader into our trailer. I described the roughness of the wood Daddy used to build two benches and a picnic table for our tiny kitchen--the only way eight of us could fit around a table. No need to tell the reader that picnic table became the heart of our home--it's presence in scene after scene said it for me.
Imbedded in my scenes were bits of dialog and descriptions that stirred the senses. I wanted my readers to "meet" my parents, to smell the rose-water on Mama's skin and the Old Spice on Daddy's cheek. I wanted them to see Mama fiddling with the beaded fringe on her white moccasins and listen to her own description of her unfaithfulness: "When the cat's away the mouse will play." I wanted readers to hear Daddy whispering "Lookie there," while pointing to one of the world's wonders, whether it be a sunset, an arrow head or tarantula lumbering across a two-lane highway.
I looked for the narrative arc in my story, seeing myself as a protagonist. What was my emotional truth? When were the desires of my heart thwarted or rewarded? More often than not the emotional truth I uncovered revealed a universal truth, which novels often reveal. Plumbing the depths of human longing is not exclusive to either fiction or memoir, nor is writing scenes laced with dialog that tell a story with a beginning, middle and end. There's no reason why true stories can't read like novels, too.
Instead of telling our story in generalities (we lived in a trailer), I tried to invite the reader into our trailer. I described the roughness of the wood Daddy used to build two benches and a picnic table for our tiny kitchen--the only way eight of us could fit around a table. No need to tell the reader that picnic table became the heart of our home--it's presence in scene after scene said it for me.
Imbedded in my scenes were bits of dialog and descriptions that stirred the senses. I wanted my readers to "meet" my parents, to smell the rose-water on Mama's skin and the Old Spice on Daddy's cheek. I wanted them to see Mama fiddling with the beaded fringe on her white moccasins and listen to her own description of her unfaithfulness: "When the cat's away the mouse will play." I wanted readers to hear Daddy whispering "Lookie there," while pointing to one of the world's wonders, whether it be a sunset, an arrow head or tarantula lumbering across a two-lane highway.
I looked for the narrative arc in my story, seeing myself as a protagonist. What was my emotional truth? When were the desires of my heart thwarted or rewarded? More often than not the emotional truth I uncovered revealed a universal truth, which novels often reveal. Plumbing the depths of human longing is not exclusive to either fiction or memoir, nor is writing scenes laced with dialog that tell a story with a beginning, middle and end. There's no reason why true stories can't read like novels, too.
