HOW TO CHOOSE THE RIGHT DETAILS when writing memoir is one of the more perplexing issues facing any of us, and we face it every single time we sit down to write. It’s a question I get in every memoir class I teach and, after corresponding with Artis Henderson, author of the marvelous book, Unremarried Widow, I started to believe that it is the wrong question, since long before you choose them, you must know how to access the details for writing memoir. Artis is a master of the right word, the correct detail. Read what she has to say about how to go in and get what you need to write.
How to Write Sensory Detail in Memoir
By Artis Henderson
As memoirists, our job is to capture memories and translate them into story. But we often forget to include the very elements that make a memory so powerful: sensory details, the sights, smells, tastes, sounds, and feels of a particular moment that create the backdrop for the story’s action. So, how do we mine our memories for this information? I like to work on three levels.
I begin with as wide a screen as I can. Often when I write, I launch into a scene with a global statement: It was _____. I almost always start with a detail about the weather. It was hot. It was sunny. It was breezy. I understand that from a style perspective this is all wrong. I can imagine my critique group members cringing. Passive voice, they’d say. Too general. I know, I know. But I like to take Anne Lamott’s advice and give myself permission to write crappy first drafts. We have to start somewhere. And when it comes to sensory details, we might as well start as generally as we can. Anyway, that first sentence—the embarrassing “It was hot”—will almost never make it into the final draft. It simply stands as a reminder that a scene calls not only for action and dialogue but also for vivid sensory set design. Once I have this most basic sensual detail on the page—It was hot—I keep writing. I move through the senses, describing everything I remember about the moment I am trying to capture. A horn honked. It smelled like rain. The good stuff—the best stuff—never comes in the first few sentences. But if I keep going, keep writing through the senses, eventually I hit on something.
From this outermost ring of sensation, I move a step closer to bring the focus of my writing to the immediate stage. I zoom in on the area where the action takes place—a room, a field, a car. I try to remember what was happening on a sensory level in that moment. Could I smell something cooking on the stove? Did I hear a dog barking outside? Maybe I felt a draft from the air conditioner? Discovering these details takes time and a willingness to be still and listen. If we sit with our memories, I think we are often surprised at what we uncover. The mind retains much more than we give it credit for. But this patience can be difficult. I know I’m guilty of rushing through scenes on the first draft where I’m so busy writing down action and dialogue that I leave out the sensual details that create intimacy for the reader. Thankfully, there are second drafts. (And third, and fourth . . .) On the next pass I have time to slow down and consider the moment I’m writing about. I pause to let the memory percolate and then I place myself in the scene. I ask, How did the fabric feel? How did the oven smell? How did the radio sound?
Finally, on the last and most intimate sensory level, I use my body as a reference point. I try to recreate what was happening inside my own frame during the moment I am describing. Were my shoulders tense? Did my fingertips smells like oranges? Was my breathing jagged? These personal sensory details are the key to delivering the most powerful, immediate experience to the reader—and isn’t that why we’re here?
Unremarried Widow, an excerpt
My husband Miles dreamed of his death in the fall of 2005, nine months before he deployed to Iraq. He was twenty-three years old.
He told me about the dream on a Saturday morning as he dressed for work at Fort Hood, and I listened from the bed while he pawed through the BDUs hanging in the closet.
“Our helicopter crashed,” he said.
He took a pair of camouflage pants off a metal hanger, shook them out by the waistband, and stepped in one leg at a time.
“John Priestner and me.”
Already the Texas day was warm and our air conditioner chugged an unconvincing stream of cool air. I squinted at Miles as he talked, trying to shake the sleep from my brain, while he disappeared back into the closet and returned with the jacket to his uniform.
“We floated above the helicopter,” he said, “while it burned to the ground.”
He pulled a pair of socks out of the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed. He turned to look at me and I rested my fingers against the side of his face. He covered my hand with his, and we sat for a time without speaking. Then he pulled on his socks, laced up his boots, and walked into the living room. I heard the metallic clink of his dog tags slipping around his neck and the front door opened and a shaft of sunlight spilled in. The door closed and I was alone.
The late-morning sun slanted through the windows when I awoke the second time that day. I pushed back the comforter and swung my feet to the ground, working out the stiffness in my back. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and leaned closer to the mirror to get a good look at the bottom row. How is it that despite a lifetime of good orthodontics my teeth could already be sliding together? I inspected where they jostled for space behind my lower lip, then shifted my eyes to the window over the shower where the light streaming in made me blink. I felt old for twenty-four.
The AC unit in the living room cranked and cranked but the sun radiated a heat that was palpable in the small space of the apartment. I felt it on the couch as I spooned cereal into my mouth, felt it in the kitchen as I rinsed my bowl, felt it is as I walked into the shadows of the bedroom to put on real clothes. When I had dressed, I turned on the television and opened the front door. A car cruised past playing Kanye West’s “Gold Digger.” On the TV a news report from New Orleans Gave an update on the wreckage from Hurricane Katrina. I changed the channel until I found Judge Judy lecturing a plaintiff about courtroom manners. The man gripped the edge of the podium and shook his head, and I lay on the couch and wondered what to do with the long hot hours of the day.
In the late afternoon, I stood in the kitchen with my hands on my hips, surveying. I owned four wooden spoons, a complete silicone bakeware set, and—somewhere packed away in the boxes from college—a laminated copy of NOW’s feminist manifesto. Because woman’s work is never done, it began. After a long minute, I pulled down a set of mixing bowls. I stirred together cornmeal and oil and eggs, filled two muffin tins I’d inherited from my grandmother, and slipped the trays in the oven. While I moved through the kitchen, looking for oven mitts, setting the hot pan on the stove, I sensed the air in the room change, a subtle shift I felt first with the fine hairs on my arms. I turned to the open doorway and there was Miles, his hair plastered to his forehead, his rucksack slung over one shoulder. He dropped the bag and stepped into the kitchen. He smiled and I smiled and then he had his arms around me. I breathed him in—the fabric of his Army fatigues, the mechanical grease on his hands, the soap smell still on his neck.
He stepped back. “Are those corn muffins?”
I smiled and my cheeks glowed.
He popped a muffin out of the tin with a knife and took a bite as he headed into the bedroom, shedding his uniform, last night’s dream already forgotten.
But I did not forget. I thought of the dream often as the unit counted down to the deployment. In the mornings the sound of artillery from the base rumbled long and low, and I imagined distant thunderheads as I lay beside Miles in the smoke-colored light of dawn. Sometimes I placed a hand on his back while he slept. I faced into his sleeping form and turned the dream over in my head. I took it as a warning, an admonition to care for Miles well. If I loved him enough, I reasoned, he would come home.
Author’s bio
Artis Henderson is an award-winning journalist and essayist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Reader’s Digest, Florida Weekly, and the online literary journal Common Ties. She has an undergraduate degree from the University of Pennsylvania and a graduate degree from Columbia University’s School of Journalism. Unremarried Widow is her first book.
AND THE WINNER IS…
I hope you enjoy Writing Lessons. Featuring well-published writers of our favorite genre, each installment of the series will take on one short topic that addresses how to write memoir, and will include a great big book giveaway.
It’s my way of saying thanks for coming by.
The contest for this book is now closed. Please see the next installment of Writing Lessons.
The winner of the book is Cheryl. Congratulations, Cheryl! I’ll be in touch to send your book.
Shelly Miller says
Wonderful advice and the excerpt a perfect example. I was riveted in those few paragraphs. Lovely.
Artis Henderson says
Thank you for these lovely and kind comments. Wishing you much writing success!
Virginia Simpson says
Thank you for the reminder about the importance of those often small details that add depth to a scene and story by allowing the reader to see, feel, smell and hear what is happening while also bringing us into our narrator’s interior life.
Artis Henderson says
Yes, absolutely. My pleasure.
Joan Z. Rough says
Great words on using descriptive words. The excerpt places me there, feeling the heat and the tension. Beautiful work.
Artis Henderson says
Thank you very much!
Toni Giarnese says
Focus the lens. A snapshot beats panorama every time.
Artis Henderson says
Yes, I agree.
Annette Osborne says
I’m already captured by the small excerpt. Would love to read her story!
Artis Henderson says
I’m glad! Thank you!
Jelane Kennedy says
Details, details, details. As I read her excerpt I am reminded again how the details really transform the piece. In my hurry sometimes to post something, I don’t always remember that I need to hone the details. Thanks for the reminder!
Artis Henderson says
Absolutely! Glad it triggered something.
Judy says
The reminder of using all five senses is a much needed reminder. Using a sense in your first sentence of a draft is an excellent way to start. Thank you for some beautiful writing!
Artis Henderson says
Thank you for your kind words!
Barbara McDowell Whitt says
Marion Roach Smith, thank you for inviting Artis Henderson to write about and share an excerpt from her memoir, Un-Remarried Widow.
Artis Henderson, from the title of your memoir one can assume your former husband did not make it home. I am sorry.
“If we sit with our memories, I think we are often surprised at what we uncover.” That is a revealing observation.
Each morning as I read the diary entry which that night will become the next post in my blog, “A 1961-1965 Park College Diary,” there are times when I remember every detail as if it happened today and tonight. Other times I am glad I have those diary entries to help me remember what happened then, 50 years ago.
Artis Henderson says
You are so very lucky to have those diary entries. Best of luck with the writing!
Lisa Romeo says
This is such an important discussion, and I am especially impressed because it combines three distinct but important craft skills — how/when/why to include sensory details AND the importance/reality of writing a good-enough opening in order to move on and get the story on the page AND the value of revisions…oh wait there’s even more – the insight that the more we write, the more we remember, and the more we remember, the more we have to write…and…
I could go on – such a valuable post. Am passing the link along right now to students who began a memoir/personal essay class with me last night.
Artis Henderson says
I’m touched that you would pass it along. Best of luck with the class and your own writing projects.
Elaine Mansfield says
Dear Marion,
Thanks for your helpful and powerful article–packed with ways to notice and recall sensory detail, including the perfect example from Artis Henderson. I just ordered her book. When writing my memoir (to be published Nov. 2014), I had the benefit of journals I wrote daily (or nightly) to help me remember what I feared I would forget. At the most catastrophic times, my journals might be only lists–this happened, then that, then that. I wrote what caught my eye and heart. I wrote about my emotional reactions, too–fear, worry, desperation, grief, exhaustion, and love. So much love.
Months after my husband’s death, I urgently wrote my stories, memories, and emotions as I remembered them. After more than a year, I realized I had the skeleton of a book. I read through my journals at this point and found I had most of the stories right, but forgot (repressed?) some of the exasperation and impatience I had felt. There it was on the journal pages. Me? I said that? I was that far out on the edge? It was right there in the journals along with wonderful small details, insights, and moments of wonder. I relied on my honest detailed journals to augment my memory and bring life and sensory detail to my story.
I greatly appreciate this piece and plan to share it.
Thank you for all you give.
Elaine
http://elainemansfield.com/
Sharon says
Your instruction here about how to start is so clear. Then you show it in the following excerpt by talking about the heat. Thanks for the simple, clear lesson.
I also learned how valuable all those tiny details are to tell a story. Would love to read your book.
Cheryl says
The lesson and the excerpt were woven together in such a way that I could grasp it. I loved the picture in my head that the excerpt created.
Amy says
This makes me sad and makes me want to know the story – great details; the dog tags clinking, the corn muffin…I’m intrigued by the dream and premonitions of death. A close friend had a husband who went to Iraq knowing he wasn’t coming back. It was heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing your story!
L'Tanya says
Thanks so much for explaining your process. I’ve often thought I just didn’t have the memory to record this level of detail in my writing. But your statement, “Discovering these details takes time and a willingness to be still and listen,” reminds me of the importance of being patience and allowing the memories to resurface.
Mel Q says
Thank you for pointing out that even you allow yourself to start with a “crappy” draft. I’ve been stuck in the past because I worried too much about how something should sound when in fact, as you point out, you just need to start and get on with it–go back later. Thanks!
Martha Brettschneider says
Loved the lesson and the gorgeous excerpt. My favorite piece of advice was to detail how our body was feeling in the midst of the scene, which is so closely tied to the state of our mind and spirit.
Thank you Marion and Artis!
Carrie says
I love your book, “The Memoir Project” I have the audio version of it and I’ve probably listened to it a hundred times as I dabble with writing for the first time. I adore this post and excerpt, it is such a good example of how to get to that level of detail that I know I desire but can’t always reach. Thank you for sharing!
Elaine Mansfield says
I just shared this at my author page on FB, but I can’t find the usual share buttons on your site. Am I missing something? No problem. I shared by copying the URL, but want you and Artis to know that I think your writing lesson is wonderful, and her writing sample enticed me to order the book from my local independent bookstore. I planned to read it anyway since we write in the same genre, but this article gave me the nudge.
Best to both of you,
Elaine
Katherine Stevenson says
I LOVE all the writing lessons and this one in particular stood out. The formula as to how to approach the detail was incredibly helpful! I was there by your side Artis with such fabulous detail. If I do not win this book I will buy it as I want to know more about both you and your husband. Like others have said, with the title, I assume he did not come home. I am so sorry for your loss.
Thanks again Marion.
Ariane says
Oh, I am so grateful to have found this website and this post today of all days! I’ve been feeling a little meh lately — post-holiday blues maybe — and not writing at my best or consistently. The invitation to sit and savor the sensory details of our memories was perfectly timed — and the excerpt was delicious with detail (the clink of the dogtags, the smell of soap still on his neck). I feel completely reinvigorated by the advice and the writing. Deeply thankful!
Sister Hilda Kleiman says
I find the explanation of moving from the wider outside picture to the sensory experience of our own body helpful. I, too, look forward to reading Unremarried Widow. Thank you!
Lynda Lee says
I was so stunned by this excerpt from Unremarried Widow, that I broke my promise to myself about not buying any more books until I’ve read all the books I’ve already purchased. This is a must-buy, must-read.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Artis.
Chryselle says
Came here through Lisa Romeo’s blog and loved your post! Thank you.
Melinda says
Ms. Henderson — You are as skilled a teacher as you are writer. Thank you for sharing with us here. I’m printing off a well-annotated hand-out to give my senior citizen memoir students this week. You so perfectly taught and then illustrated the necessity of including sensory detail I can’t wait to see lightbulbs go off over their heads!
jacqueline robison says
You brought the tears with the perfect ending. We already knew he was going to die and I was wondering how you would handle the news. No need. That was enough. If we live long enough we all share the grief of losing someone we love.
Sister Hilda Kleiman says
Dear Artis,
I just finished reading your beautiful memoir. Thank you for bringing us your story of you and Miles. I have added your book to the memoirs page on my blog.
Peace,
Sister Hilda