HOW TO WRITE LESS and say more? Keeping things spare is a hard task, but one you must master in the process of learning to write well. This is a particularly heinous assignment when it comes to memoir, since what you are asked to prune are family members, moments from your own life, things you did, said, ate, read and, well, you get the idea.
To learn to write spare, I always suggest the list.
“A list?” This is inevitably the response when I suggest this, and I’ve suggested it, oh, two- or three thousand times in the years I’ve been teaching and coaching memoir.
“Can you give me an example?” I’ll be asked.
I can. One fall, a student brought to class a list of things he did not do that summer — sort of a reverse take on the old what-you-did-on-your-vacation school assignment. The list included all the normal things one does in the warm months. He did none of them, including putting out the patio furniture and connecting the hose. And about halfway through the list it became apparent to all in the room that what he did not do was commit suicide. He never said so, though he stated it clearly in his list.
Yes. In his list. No prologue. No epilogue. No context. We got it. And we cried. And we learned a mighty lesson. He wrote less and said so very much more than we expected to hear in a list. Everyone in the class was fully informed. That’s good memoir.
Want to write some lists? Let me give you the best example of a list that I’ve ever read.
- First read this post on the value of writing lists.
- And then read this one, the best list in memoir form that I know.
Now, write your own. Learn to write less and say more by using this simple device for your very best memoir writing.
If you’d like, leave your list — or even just the beginning of your list — below and let me comment on it.
MaryAnn Smith says
A bit of backstory:
I’ve lived in the same town in CT since I was born; 58 years. My husband and I have 50 acres in NH where we will build our retirement home and move there in the next three or so years. In the meantime, since I’m sort of retired, I see all the crap around our house that’s accumulated in 32 years of marriage. The clutter has teeth and gnaws my nerves ragged, but boy does it have a lock-jaw grip on my nostalgic self! This consummate list maker has a master project list of every area that needs decluttering. I’ve been slowly chipping away at it, and conquered the utensil and cooking gizmo drawers in the kitchen earlier this week. Here is a partial list of what I thought and/or reacted to as I cleaned them out:
1. Good God, where did all this shit come from?
2. Oh look, still-in-the package Pampered Chef gadgets.
3. Wow, there are enough knives in this drawer to re-enact that scene in “Carrie.”
4. How many ice cream scoops does one family need? We have three; one for each of us. Not any more.
5. Hmmm, if anyone saw these chopsticks, they’d think we eat Chinese takeout once a week.
6. Awww, the boys’ first solid food spoon and the Winnie the Pooh fork and spoon set. And the grand kids used them too. Cue the tears.
There was a lot more commentary happening between one and six, but six was the final straw. (And yes, I found those in the drawers, too.) I know the kiddie utensils will never be used again, but I couldn’t toss them. I’m dangerously emotionally attached to “stuff.” (But, I’m not a hoarder. Everything has meaning behind it.) I sat and pondered this odd predicament I’m in and realized that I have a fear of not remembering the people by the things they gifted me, or the events I experienced will be a puff of memorial smoke if I get rid of the items that commemorated them.
So that day, Tuesday, I wrote six or so paragraphs about this and posted it on my FB page. One friend commented, “Wow, what a great short story. You write really well.” Okay. So, Marion, am I on to something here? And before you suggest one of your classes — I’ve taken several and currently enrolled in Memoir Project, where I’m working on something else.
marion says
“Boy does it have a lock-jaw grip on my nostalgic self!” Here is the line in which this piece lives.
The tension between nostalgia and progress is what this explores.
Nicely done.
Thank you for sharing.
Please come back soon.
Judy Herman says
Love this, MaryAnn and Marion! Great descriptions that make me think I’ve got some decluttering to do myself. Thanks!
JoAnn Stevelos says
What I Brought
Ten thousand dollars of stolen money
One corduroy duffle bag my sister made for my 14th birthday packed with seven pairs of underwear monogrammed with the days of the week, seven pairs of socks, one cotton blouse, a threadbare Neil Young t-shirt, one pair of overall shorts, a blue bandana, and my toothbrush.
Three ounces of weed.
My copy of Flowers in the Attic.
My fake I.D. aka Susan Warner
My little phone book.
A locket from grandmother with the letter J engraved on the front.
My plane ticket to California.
My dignity.
What I Left Behind
Early morning vodka induced visits to my bedroom
Ballet and piano lessons.
My annoying lovable little brothers.
My beloved dogs Cha Cha, Baby, Mitzy,and Rudy.
My only boyfriend.
Kleenex flowers hanging from the ceiling over a comforter my sister helped me sew together from two sheets for a Brownie badge.
Hanging out in the fireman trails getting wasted.
Beautiful evergreens I watered and mulched every summer.
Smoke billowing from my mother’s hungover mouth.
Tools of the oppressors: gaslighting, threats, coercion, and sanctimonious hypocrisy.
What They Kept
Their secrets.
My silence.
MaryAnn Smith says
Only three ounces? Where were you headed? Haight-Ashbury? ;-)
JoAnn says
Actually–and really–yes!
marion says
This is breathtaking. You quickly recreate astonishing tension as well as loyalty — we are rooting for you as soon as we read “my dignity.” We are invested in your success. Fabulous job. Wonderfully executed.
JoAnn says
Thank you Marion! This exercise really helped me focus on a story I hope to pitch to The Moth. I was struggling but now I feel like I have something solid to work from.
I loved reading everyone’s lists too–good stuff!
marion says
JoAnn:
Go get ’em on The Moth.
We’ll be waiting to hear it.
Please always write in and tell us when you publish/have something aired.
Best,
Marion
Judy Herman says
Great lists, JoAnn! These examples are powerful. Thanks, Marion.
Michelle says
1997
Anxiety in Three Lists
-What I Feel-
Vertigo
Sweating
Hyperventilation
Hypervigilance
Nausea
Diarrhoea
Dry retching
Racing heart
Numb hands
Numb lips
Numb feet
Dry mouth
Violent blushing (especially at own reflection)
Hand tremors
Tunnel vision
Ringing in ears
Lack of appetite
Lump in throat
Ceaseless, causeless fear
-What I Do-
Straighten rug fringes
Walk 6km every day (to burn adrenaline)
Avoid people and public places (includes the phone)
Flick head to check for vertigo
Stop only when exhausted
Sleep to escape
See Doctor for physical symptoms
-What I Think-
I’ve just woken up. Here’s the first panic.
It has been ten minutes. I must be due another.
I am dying.
I’m crazy.
I will lose my children.
I am broken.
There is no way back to normal from here.
No one would want me for their mother/child/wife.
I have to hold it together or I will be put in a psych hospital.
If I drive into this wall it will all be over.
My children. I can’t.
I think I have schizophrenia like my uncle and brother.
This is the family curse.
My heart can’t hold out much longer.
This stress will give me cancer.
The tennis ball in my throat must be a tumour.
Swallow it down.
I am neurotic.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
(I’m okay now, by the way) :)
marion says
Oh yes.
Here is panic written and shown to the reader, and not merely told.
We can feel its build, its grip.
We can see the thought to feeling connection.
Beautifully done.
Judy Herman says
Awesome list, Michelle. I could feel it with you and starting taking deep breaths myself. Glad you’re OK! Thanks for your encouragement, Marion.
Dana Laquidara says
My list for my memoir which is about being alienated from my mother after my parents’ divorce, when I was four years old.
What my mother left me:
1. The memory of her goodness, and her love.
2. My father, so resolved at erasing her from my life as punishment for her rejection of him.
3. The same fear of my father that she had.
4. One photograph of us together; the others had been discarded, but I found this one and kept it under my mattress.
5. Her wavy auburn hair and blue eyes that strangers would ask me where I got. I could never tell them the truth.
6. A hole in my heart and the once reckless attempts at filling it.
7. A burning desire to solve the mystery of her, and to write it down.
8. Our bond, violently torn but never completely severed.
marion says
Great job, Dana.
See how you move through the trauma and healing in eight simple sentences.
Terrific example of what we’re doing here.
Thank you.
Judy Herman says
Insightful, Dana and Marion.
Nathalie says
At first, This writing task seemed “empty”. After reading responses, I was impressed by the depth of each person’s response to what sounded trivial. I will write my list. Thank you, Nathalie
marion says
Dear Nathalie,
So glad this provided you with some growth as a writer.
Please do write yours.
Readers await.
Come back soon.
Best,
Marion
Ellen says
Marion,
I can make a list if I have a category, but how do I know I’m giving it the proper heading? How do I think of those headings? How do you think of a list that matters?
Joely says
“What matters”
“What is proper”
“What is on my list”
some really basic suggestions… and you might just leap off from there xox
Ellen says
I don’t understand. I won’t have a list without a category to file it under. How do I think up a list that readers care about?
marion says
Dear Ellen,
You think of it as you would any story.
What did you take with you the last time you left somewhere?
Just list the items and let’s see what you’ve got.
I recently helped clean out someone else’s house after his death.
What I found informed me of who he was.
See the story? I learned more about someone I’d known for 50 years.
Give it a try.
Ellen says
Dear Marion,
Thank you for this blog post. It is making me think in new ways that will help me become a better writer. It is helping me recall the things I had forgotten.
marion says
Thank you, Joely, author of that remarkable list.
Thank you.
Look at what your writing continues to provide and provoke.
I am — we all are — eternally grateful.
Judy Herman says
All these comments and questions are so helpful, Ellen, Joley, and Marion. It’s worth my time to ponder and list.
Mary Scott says
Loss of my husband to lung disease after 50 years of marriage.
What he took with him:
My Love
My self-image
My self-confidence
What he left behind:
His example of strength and courage
His faith in me
His love
What I’ve Learned:
He was right
I am strong and courageous
I am loved
marion says
Oh my, Mary.
Oh my.
This is humbling.
Look at the perfect circle here: He took you self-esteem. Or so you thought.
Gorgeous.
Stephanie says
The marks life has left on my body:
1. A scar on the back of my head (now covered by hair of course) from when I was joyously roughhousing with my mom and sister and slammed my head into a solid wood chair.
2. A minuscule scar in my arm from a passing player in a grade school basketball game.
3. A scar on my chin from the time my sister convinced me to shave my face in the tub with my moms razor. She still laughs about this.
4. Stretch marks on my thighs from when I was 30 lbs heavier and lived a different life.
5. Stretch marks kn my belly and sides from the three times my body expanded to being another life into this world.
6. Freckles on my nose from endless hours of playing outside as a kid. Pale strawberry blondes are not friends with the sun.
7. Closed earring holes, two in each ear.
8. A callus on my ring finger from my engagement and wedding bands rubbing for seven years as we worked together in building a life.
9. A 3 inch scar under my left armpit where the cut into my body to place a chest tube and release a liter of fluid- the worst pain of my life and I’ve given birth without medication.
10. Two 3 inch scars below that one where they cut in to scrape out another liter of fluid and place two more chest tubes.
11. A small dot of a scar on the inside of my right upper arm where a PICC line was placed to administer massive doses of IV antibiotics after the three chest tubes- to save my life and the life of my third son who was 27 weeks old in my tired, worn body fighting to keep us both alive.
12. Worry lines on my forehead from all the things I chose and choose to carry instead of asking for help.
13. Smile lines around both sides of my mouth, echoing the joy which is abundant in my life.
Still working on what all of this means.
marion says
Oh my.
Ending with the smile lines is an extraordinary message to the world.
Gorgeous job.
Thank you.
Judy Herman says
Great list, Stephanie about the stories from our wounds. It makes me wonder about my 4-year-old grandson’s story he’ll develop with the recent gash on his knee that took 4 stitches, and no fun in the pool at “Mimi’s house.” I’m inspired by the lists and stories, Marion. Thanks!
MaryAnn Smith says
Yikes! Your list made me think of my scars, too. Thanks for the reminder that not all of life’s scars are visible as I think of emotional scars I received from bullying as a six-year-old. I’m 58 and just coming to terms with a physical characteristic I had no control over as a child: extremely curly red hair. Stupid, huh? My mastectomy scar doesn’t even bother me as much as being made to feel inferior most of my youth.
Congrats on your scars. You’ve earned them all!
marion says
Wow.
That last line of that first paragraph speaks volumes about the life-long effect of bullying.
Nicely done.
Thank you for sharing it.
Ellen says
After thinking about lists a while and reading yours I came up with one. I attended Grandpa’s funeral when I was ten-years-old. Here is what I remember.
What I wore: The pink summer dress with flecks of gold and enormous white sash because it was Grandpa’s favorite.
What I saw: Grandpa’s silver cap of hair from a distance, droves of obese elderly women in black dresses and hats, most of them frowning and dabbing their eyes and noses with tissue.
What I felt: The hard metal folding chair beneath me, heat blowing from furnace vents in the funeral home, a tight rubber band pulling at my scalp after Mother fixed my pony tail.
marion says
Oh, how I love that tight rubber band and exactly where it appears, how it captures a moment in time — after she fixed your pony tail.
Beautifully done.
We actually feel the tension in it.
Thanks for sharing it.
Ellen says
Thank you for helping me remember. Remembering the experience was kind of magical.
Katherine Cox Stevenson says
Thank you SO much Marion for these fabulous opportunities!!
Where we lived:
on a tiny island in the Salish Sea in a little blue house overlooking the ocean
1/2 acre of garden
private, quiet, retirement dream
full time population of 900 people
minimal health care services
no full time police presence
no streetlights
What I said:
please can someone believe me
there are changes happening in your dad
I am scared almost all the time
It is ok honey. We will do this together
Fuck you! Don’t you ever lock me out of our house again
What I heard:
he seems fine to me
aren’t you over-reacting
Don’t get up! (held down) There are Chinese men in the living room with machine guns
look!? There is a severed leg on the chair
wait!! Shsss…There is a sniper on the deck
get out you bitch. I have had it with you
I love you
do you think I am losing my mind
ou should divorce him instead of what you are doing
you
you are making this all up because you are a RN
What I did:
try endlessly to get him support
took many island respites
secretly rented a writing cabin
became obsessed with my predictably unpredictable life
whole focus for two years trying to keep us safe
weekly counselling
refused to take him home after the police finally got him to hospital
lost myself
marion says
“Secretly rented a writing cabin”
Look at the turn there for self-sustenance.
It’s gorgeous to behold.
We all see the grace in that.
Lovely job.
Laura D says
A “holy crap” nugget of life…
I was a powerhouse of independence climbing the corporate ladder
Excellence, education and raising my child was my thing as a single (married) person
Hiding the real world I lived in to maintain my professional personae came easy…
How long can this go on? This is a lonely existence…I just want to have friends..
My child is in a coma, they were wrong…he survived…what is survival?
Marriage of 2 years ends, he attempts suicide twice, blames me…he survives and later dies.
New person promises all, yet, I continue to hide outside of my real world.
He is a great built-in babysitter so I can excel…the plus/minus works.
Climbing the corporate ladder as a single is still my safe zone.
I have this down pat.
What I knew of raising a child was no longer applicable. Rehabilitation takes over…staff are always present…life under a microscope requires excellence and more education…
New career opportunity reaches out, takes my hand and I follow.
College certificates, diploma, university certificates, and 4-year Bachelors…Masters…thinking on it.
Quits his job, depression, surgery…
He begins to self-medicate with prescription and street drugs…can never have enough painkillers
We separate, hung himself, they hold him up, cut him down, he survived…later dies
I start spinning…loneliness is crazy making…
I watch from the outside as staff keep a sense of norm…
“Alone again, naturally” is taking on a life on its own, not just a song lyric
I keep everyone compartmentalized…there is no trail…friends are few.
Paint will permanently cover his life I hid for so long…I am tired of hiding.
Getting stronger…reassess my needs: employed, own property, well-spoken, sense of humor, no drug use, successful, loves his family, want a “growing old” partner…I don’t trust, so keeping my own stuff…in case…
“In case” happened…I married the public face, divorced the private face a handful of years later.
Alone again, my commitment has cost me much…career, relationships, friends and life style…and, has given me back more than I could ever imagine…the unconditional love a son can give his Mom…when he knows nothing else…
Today, a new day to be thankful for.
marion says
Dear Laura,
Thank you.
Look at what you did not write but still stated clearly.
Beautifully done.
Best,
Marion