How to Start the Process:  Begin!

        Rousing the Muse

If all writers waited until their Muse rolled over and told them it was time to get to work, there’d be many more trees in the forests. The Muse is a fickle creature. Do not depend upon it. You need to be self-starting. Waiting for inspiration is really procrastination. We all know that good writing, like good cooking, is 20% inspiration and 80% application. Make your watchword: application precedes motivation .

In other words, beginning starts the process; moving the pencil starts the mind moving, not vice versa. In fact, mind follows; it does not lead. Pick up the pen and start writing; the mind will click into gear and words will flow.  You need to prime the pump!

Countless writers, chewing pencils, getting another coffee or walking the dog, swear to this but still resist. As a painter faces a blank canvas, the writer faces empty paper or screen. Thinking about filling it won’t fill it. Planning how you’ll fill it won’t fill it. Only writing things down will fill it. Just concentrate on putting some words on the paper, any words.

         The Right Words

Ah, but they may not be the right words, you say. This is your left-brain critic doing its best to sandbag your creative efforts. There are no "right" words. If you forget (as you should) grammar, good English usage and the like, and just feverishly scribble down essentials, the critic is sure to blackmail you into going back to write complete sentences. Drop-kick this saboteur into next Friday and keep scribbling!

You need every advantage possible. Just sitting down to write is a daunting job even for seasoned writers. As soon as you take the chair, all your foibles sit down with you. Doubts, distractions, dumb little worries, hunger pangs, guilt, the dog whining, those old shoes to be rescued from the garage—anything to keep you from working. Being available when distraction calls is a great way to procrastinate. Even famous writers are expert at it.  So cut yourself a distinct block of private time.

Initially, the mechanism of memoir is a very private act. To help yourself, find an undisturbed piece of real estate where you can be alone and comfortable. Interruption is the enemy of staying receptive to memory recall. Get private and get quiet (unless some particular music helps you travel back in time). Relax. Find a spot where you can let your muscles go slack and you can feel loose and free. Or strike a meditative pose—whatever renders you most receptive. Try not to chase memory; rather, let it come to you.

          Let Your Mind Wander

In meditation, we try to focus the mind. In memoir, we permit the mind to wander at will. What comes up when you let your mind wander, on its own, may or may not be important stuff. No reason to force anything. If it doesn’t feel intuitively like pay-dirt, then you might be watching reflections of your defenses—what you think about so you won’t have to think about what you should be thinking about.  If you feel any twinge of self-consciousness or resistence, stop and start over.

Sometimes memory will play the old "crippled-wing" trick, like a mother bird diverting you from her nest. Yet even this decoy material can be rewarding--if you write it down rather than take it personally. If we react judgmentally, we end up fighting what’s already there. Juggling that tension blocks creativity. Accept what is and see what it can do for you.  Go with it.  Watch where it leads you.

Oddly, you may find painful stuff comes easily to mind but challenges you most to dig deep into it. That’s how it is for me, for some reason. My happy memories seem to come up less easily and also fade more quickly, like lightning bugs. Maybe that’s why I’m moved to write more of them down.

     Stand in the Moment

A trick of memoir is not so much to write well as to travel, or transport ourselves, well—back to the time we want to describe. Perhaps we go back to the very moment, back to sights, sounds, textures, atmospheres, feelings and thoughts that attract us in the first place. Note the order of remembering these details: thoughts come last. And unless a feeling is overwhelming--so much the true theme of what you’re recalling that it cannot be stalled--try to sideline it momentarily.  Too often, feelings reflect objective details colored by reactions, judgments.  I'm obviously not talking just about "cold, hard" facts here, but even the warm, wet ones.

Never try to "figure things out"--especially from your "adult" perspective. The objective is not to think but to observe, preferably with the eyes of a child. Just go back for details gleaned from your own five senses.

Close your eyes and imagine the scene, episode, event. Drift back slowly into the moment. At first, look for finite pieces rather than the whole picture. But once you have an overview, locate where you might belong. Put yourself in that spot and—incidentally--choose whether to be visible or invisible. Are people nearby? Can you hear them? Disregard them for the moment; they’ll likely be saying the same things when you come back to them. If you’re invisible, they won’t even know you’re eavesdropping.

Concentrate instead on your surroundings—sights, sound, colors, odors. Ask yourself how things look, feel, smell, taste, sound? Just jot down quick notes when you’re ready to open your eyes. Or scribble notes and go back by closing your eyes again. Don’t leave your recall spot too quickly to log your impressions. Linger and observe.   Aroma--odor--is, incidentally, one of the strongest of the sensory markers.  Practice by recalling the great--or terrible--smells in your life; you'll be surprised at results.

Notice as many fragments of feeling as you can: sunshine or a breeze on your skin, a spire of purple foxgloves, bells pealing in the distance, a smiling unicorn, smoky honey licked from your arm, the silvery chirr of crickets, the horror in your sister’s eyes as her rake uncovers a decomposing cat, your brother’s smug grin as he bumps you off your bike.

          Take A Snapshot

People in the workshop are amazed by how much comes back. Once you get the hang of it, you can fill pages of a notebook with details but it’s hard to flip in and out of the scene to jot notes that fast. So take a snapshot. Focus on a scene’s essentials and take a mental picture to bring back.

Capture people in characteristic poses as they speak. Notice light and shadow, weather, sky, or indoor surroundings. Try to give everything a fresh look; don’t impose what you may remember or have heard about a scene or event unless it squares with what you are observing. Use memory as a camera to document details.

If details seem so odd, inappropriate or kooky you can’t imagine where they’d fit, bring them back anyway. If you doubt your own "eyes" and you’re sure you can’t have seen a unicorn or an angel on a broomstick, note that too. "That couldn’t be right," you might say; but trust it, bring it back. Often, as in dreams, puzzling things we deny or that disturb us hold unsuspected keys to understanding or resolution. But most, we just want sample snapshots of a specific journey. With practice, you really can use your mind like a camera.

Again, don’t listen to those voices in your head: the censor is back from lunch. Just click away with your mental Instamatic.

Sometimes we are completely unaware of the censor’s voice. It’s hard to break free from this ingrown committee of scolds. These voices are so familiar, they’re likely background noise by now (hold this thought; we’ll come back to it later). We usually carry in our mind, in fact, two different versions of what we imagine we’ve been remembering: 1) a version passed by our inner censor and 2) a version we "hide" from ourselves but deep down sense is the real thing.
 

         Gag the Inner Critic

One good way to gag the inner critic is to practice connecting with version #2 so what’s been previously unconscious can become more conscious. I call this writing a "hang-out" draft in which you "let it all hang out." You let yourself connect with what you really know. And you allow this because it’s utterly private, because nobody ever need see this roughest of drafts or hodgepodge of notes. Its form and content is for you alone.

Loosen up by just scribbling words as they come, even ones you normally avoid. String enough words together to approximate sentences—without punctuation, spelling, grammar, even sense. Just words. Letting yourself go to write in a free-flowing, fast-as-you-can-go narrative will not be easy, because you’re out of practice and your inner critic is now your fifth-grade teacher looking over your shoulder and shaking her head in disgust.

Most important, don’t put labels or judgments on what comes out in a free-flowing, practice draft. Judgments only stifle the memory flow and cramp your freedom to be true to your past. Tell yourself that nothing is "too wild," "too weird," "too awful," "too silly," or "too wonderful" to put down on paper. No one real (hey, your critic isn’t real!) is watching these baby steps to let-go-and-let-fly when you allow yourself just to log episodes, feelings, details, thoughts that occur. Remember, anything you want can be erased or edited later if what you write seems worth keeping.

         Hidden Epiphanies

This exercise inevitably creates surprises. It may reveal or reflect details you were unaware of knowing or emotions you were unaware of feeling. This is a common feature of the memoir workshop: you discover things you never knew you knew. Often, when people share written vignettes in the workshop, out jump these "unknown" or previously "hidden" epiphanies. Others may hear what the writers reading their own work can’t. Things we miss others pick up. Listeners often "read between the lines" what writers cannot.

As we share these observations, a sense of helping and receiving help develops. That creates trust and appreciation. This atmosphere grows as workshop sessions proceed. People get to know each other as they reveal themselves--sometimes courageously--in telling their personal stories and I see a kind of loyalty and camaraderie develop. It’s nice chemistry, whether you’re on the giving or receiving end of the equation.