Walking uphill, both ways...

 “When I was a kid…”

That phrase embodies a longing to return to a time when life moved a little more slowly, people stood and talked without hurry, and children played outside without parents worrying. Knocks on the front door typically meant a neighbor just wanted company and had walked over with their evening coffee to sit on the front porch and gossip. As we age, we long for simpler times, but everything appears more complicated as the years pass. 

“When I was a kid…” is usually followed by descriptions of innocent and tender things, like walking barefoot on a dirt road that leads you home or climbing a tree during recess at school. Those things are now seen as impossible, archaic, or downright unbelievable. But to those of us who experienced them, they were as real as the moon and the stars. We describe those moments hoping that the magic we experienced growing up can somehow permeate the lives of those we love. Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who have never known the joy of chasing fireflies at midnight, might feel a hint of the joy and awe we felt as children when the silence seemed too loud, and dusk took too long to give way to the darkness.

“When I was a kid…” seeps into our language as quietly as memories sneak into our daily lives. But telling those moments does not bring them to life; only through writing can they be made immortal. Brutus was wrong at Ceasar’s funeral; the evil that men do AND the good are BOTH interred with their bones unless it’s written. We are all turned to dust and eventually forgotten unless our moments and lives are made immortal.

“When I was a kid…” will be lost to time and disbelief until you see your story as worthy. It is necessary for those who want to learn from you; there is always something to learn from every life and experience. You are where you are, WHO you are, because of decisions and choices that steered your career and family life trajectory. Think back and ponder how one misstep, one indecision, could have altered your entire path. That is the benefit of memoir: helping others navigate difficult decisions as they travel similar career paths. 

Next time you hear a colleague or friend say, “When I was a kid…” give them the attention that phrase deserves. They aren’t being wistful or melancholy. They are sharing a moment that made them who they are and put them on their path. Ask questions and be genuinely curious. Give them space to explore the memory and live in that moment, if only for a few minutes. They might give you the same courtesy the next time you stare out the window with a tender smile playing at the corner of your mouth, and say, “Ya know, when I was a kid…”

 

Seeing the Tree through the Forest

            

Insecurity is the deadliest virus for any goal. Self-doubt strangles success.

            It is incredibly easy to label your unwillingness to try as an inability. But it isn’t an inability…it’s fear—fear of embarrassment, ridicule, and failure. But if you never try or fail, you can never succeed. So, trying and failing is absolutely necessary to solve the equation of success. That is why you see writers carrying notebooks and pencils with them everywhere. They write about everything at all times. The practice of words is ever-evolving, just as the person wielding the pen changes from moment to moment. Which brings us to the two most often-asked questions I receive:

            “How do I begin my memoir?” and “How do I end my memoir?”

            Well, the easy answer is birth and death. But that’s also an unrealistic approach to memoir. So, then, how should you approach memoir? A forest. That’s the answer. Think of trees in a forest.

I know you’re thinking, ‘This woman has eaten way too many red M&M’s,’ but what I’m saying is true! Allow me to explain…when you first walk into a forest, do you stop and look at every tree and leaf? No. But your eyes are drawn to certain trees for no particular reason. Maybe you’re staring at the little birch with its white bark peeling away like sun-burnt skin. Or the huge oak with branches that stretch overhead like a giant's arms. Like certain memories, those unique timbers stay with you long after you leave the woods. There’s no rhyme or reason for their persistence, but they continue tapping on the walls of your mind.    

            Those memories are where you begin. Just write them down exactly as they happened. There’s no editing, no need to create a story, no need to ensure a morally pleasant outcome—just write the retrospection exactly as it comes to you. Once you finish that thought, go on to the next one. Don’t try to connect anything; just allow them to occupy their own space. Yes, your writing will be rough. Yes, your words will stumble over each other. Yes, it will be hard not to erase, scratch out, delete, and so on, but you must keep the integrity of each recollection. Leave it as is and move on to the next. Only until you’ve written the majority of the moments you feel NEED to be in your memoir, can you go back and begin focusing on the bigger picture.

            Until it’s out of your head, you can’t move forward. It’s that simple. So, find a comfortable place, pick out instruments that help you relax, like a favorite pen or pencil, your favorite notebook, and music. Carve out 30 minutes from each day to just write. Allow that to be YOUR time to dedicate to memories. And that is how you begin to march through your memoir. One memory at a time.