Terry Helwig's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
The Light & Shadow of Writing a Memoir
When I began writing Moonlight on Linoleum six years ago, I had no way of knowing the outcome of unbridling my family's story and turning it loose into the world. It was a time of blessing and curse, excitement and apprehension, light and shadow.
Cocooned behind my desk, I wrote to make sense of the chaotic life my family and I lived, moving from one oil town to another in the American Southwest. I wrote to piece together the puzzle of our lives, to better understand my mother, to examine the undercurrents than ran beneath my every-day existence. I didn't think much about readers looking over my shoulder as I wrote--which probably kept me from closing too many curtains.
Still, I'm caught off-guard when I realize strangers know me better than most of my friends. If I casually mention something about one of my sisters, I'm often asked which one. Then I realize people now know my sisters by name. I'm literally "an open book."
Writing my memoir has brought much light into my life. In addition to being given coupons for 12 free malts (those who have read the book will understand), I have re-discovered lost friends and family my sisters and I didn't know existed. For decades, I had puzzled over a photograph in my possession of me, my sister Vicki, and a blond, curly-headed child a few years older than either of us. Some fifty years later, via ancestry.com and a chance glimpse of another photograph, the mystery was solved. The child's name was Bonnie; she is my cousin. She's coming to our family reunion this June.
Unfortunately, writing my memoir also has cast a long shadow over my life. One of the persons I most wanted to pay tribute to was not pleased--my stepdad. Even though I consider him to be a hero, he is not happy that I unbridled the past. I have to live with the absence of his approval.
And still...I find myself cocooning behind my desk, continuing to open myself up to the movement of light and shadow.
Cocooned behind my desk, I wrote to make sense of the chaotic life my family and I lived, moving from one oil town to another in the American Southwest. I wrote to piece together the puzzle of our lives, to better understand my mother, to examine the undercurrents than ran beneath my every-day existence. I didn't think much about readers looking over my shoulder as I wrote--which probably kept me from closing too many curtains.
Still, I'm caught off-guard when I realize strangers know me better than most of my friends. If I casually mention something about one of my sisters, I'm often asked which one. Then I realize people now know my sisters by name. I'm literally "an open book."
Writing my memoir has brought much light into my life. In addition to being given coupons for 12 free malts (those who have read the book will understand), I have re-discovered lost friends and family my sisters and I didn't know existed. For decades, I had puzzled over a photograph in my possession of me, my sister Vicki, and a blond, curly-headed child a few years older than either of us. Some fifty years later, via ancestry.com and a chance glimpse of another photograph, the mystery was solved. The child's name was Bonnie; she is my cousin. She's coming to our family reunion this June.
Unfortunately, writing my memoir also has cast a long shadow over my life. One of the persons I most wanted to pay tribute to was not pleased--my stepdad. Even though I consider him to be a hero, he is not happy that I unbridled the past. I have to live with the absence of his approval.
And still...I find myself cocooning behind my desk, continuing to open myself up to the movement of light and shadow.
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.
Writing in the Shadows
It's near the end of January and I have one chapter, 16 pages, of my novel completed. My sister Joni made me laugh when she said 16 well-written pages are a lot better than 100 badly written pages. Very true! My lesson this month has been learning the importance of "massaging" my material--my first draft of the chapter was only four pages long; it was but a shadow of the finished product. Shadows are good--they prime the pump--but the key is to flesh out the shadows until you have a living, breathing piece of work. Hopefully, I've accomplished that. Today, I'm in the shadows of Chapter Two.
Get-lost Days, Good for the Soul
In our fast-paced, information-age society, setting aside chunks of time to reconnect is becoming a lost art. While I envy Thoreau’s year in the woods, my nurture and nourishment have, by necessity, been parceled into smaller increments—mostly in the shape of days I call "get-lost days."
The premise of a get-lost day (or a get-lost afternoon) is to block out time to dawdle, explore and connect with the world. Get-lost days fuel my creativity. I often back out of the garage not knowing my destination. The mystery of where the day's current will lead is part of the fun. Years ago, my husband waved to me and my daughter from the garage and called out: "Don't forget your map."
My daughter Mandy, a veteran of get-lost days by age ten, rolled down her window and yelled, “Dad, you don’t use maps on get-lost days.” For the most part, she was right.
Over the years, we hiked Thoreau’s Walden Pond; stained our fingers blue picking wild blueberries; slurped fresh watermelon under various oaks; and bought antique china cups for a tea party. We discovered new trails, tucked-away restaurants (yes, a few dives) and quaint neighborhoods. Once, we even stopped by a roadside stand advertising "Piglets for Sale." I'm happy to report we didn't buy any piglets, but the fresh vegetables were divine!
I have celebrated get-lost days for forty years, and I have never returned empty-hearted. Truly, none of us knows how a given day will unfold. Get-lost days merely celebrate this mystery and create a space for the soul to loiter and revel in the unraveling of time.
The premise of a get-lost day (or a get-lost afternoon) is to block out time to dawdle, explore and connect with the world. Get-lost days fuel my creativity. I often back out of the garage not knowing my destination. The mystery of where the day's current will lead is part of the fun. Years ago, my husband waved to me and my daughter from the garage and called out: "Don't forget your map."
My daughter Mandy, a veteran of get-lost days by age ten, rolled down her window and yelled, “Dad, you don’t use maps on get-lost days.” For the most part, she was right.
Over the years, we hiked Thoreau’s Walden Pond; stained our fingers blue picking wild blueberries; slurped fresh watermelon under various oaks; and bought antique china cups for a tea party. We discovered new trails, tucked-away restaurants (yes, a few dives) and quaint neighborhoods. Once, we even stopped by a roadside stand advertising "Piglets for Sale." I'm happy to report we didn't buy any piglets, but the fresh vegetables were divine!
I have celebrated get-lost days for forty years, and I have never returned empty-hearted. Truly, none of us knows how a given day will unfold. Get-lost days merely celebrate this mystery and create a space for the soul to loiter and revel in the unraveling of time.
