A Picture Can Spark a Thousand Words

 Nothing can get words and memories flowing for a life writer quite like a picture. Whether you’re journaling, writing a simple story or crafting a memoir, pictures can bring back memories as fresh as wet paint, and having the picture as a focal point may enable you to revisit the memory from many angles.

The general wisdom is that looking through your own  photo stash will spur memories. I gave an example of how that can work in Photographic Memory Jolts, in October 2007.

Before the days of digital cameras, most people only took photos on special occasions, so reminders of everyday life are rare. Fortunately, there is an alternative: browse through magazines and picture books, or do keyword searches on sites like Flickr.com to find thought-provoking photos.

When you find a picture that resonates with you, tear it out, or copy digital ones into a writing prompt folder. Write about it right away, or stick it in a collection to use when you feel stuck or want to do some freewriting. I pulled the picture above from a pile of illustrations I tore out of magazines a few years ago to use as writing prompts for myself and writing groups. I love the look of astonishment and maybe a few other things on that fresh young face. The pile has served well, and writing from it is a popular group activity.

Whether you find pictures from your own photos or enticing new sources, here are tips for using them to best advantage:

• Let your mind wander as you look at the picture. Run your eyes over various aspects of it. For example, in the one above, notice the expression on the girl’s face, her wide eyes and gaping mouth, the time of day, the expanse of table. Look at her hair, perfectly combed into cute pony tails.
• If this is a familiar picture, try to look at it as if you have never seen it before and set aside as many memories as you are able.
• Assess your feelings about the picture. Do you feel happy? Sad? Anxious? Indifferent?  Excited?
• Ask yourself what the picture reminds you of.  Make a few notes about any memories that come to mind.
• If the picture is of someone else, try putting yourself into the other person’s situation. For example, pretend you are the girl in the picture above. What might you be seeing that has your eyes popping? Were you ever in a situation where you reacted like that? Do you think others know she’s there?

After dwelling on the picture and thinking briefly about your reactions and memories or imaginations, begin to freewrite about whatever comes to mind, keeping the picture in sight as you write. You may be surprised at what comes out.

If a picture evokes especially powerful emotions, try writing about it another time or two taking different perspectives each time. Your creativity will get a boost, you may have material for a great new story, and you may have some fascinating and helpful new insight for unclogging a memoir or your life.

Write now: find a pile of old magazines and start a collection of meaningful pictures to use as writing prompts. Keep them loose to reuse, or paste to the page you’re writing one. Alternatively, copy and paste a significant picture into a new document and write about it on your computer.

Writing Out the Tough Times

Nancy Pogue LaTurner is that author of Voluntary Nomads, a book I reviewed a couple of months ago. Read the review for general information about the book. For now I’ll simply say that I was mesmerized by the grace and compassion with which she wrote an account of a time when her husband became involved with Another Woman. After some brief correspondence, I asked Nancy if she would consent to an interview about the experience of writing that account. She did. Here it is:

SL: You made a brave decision to write about an affair your husband became involved in for a time. Many wives who remained married afterward may prefer to simply forget about that difficult time and avoid reliving the trauma. What was your purpose in including this material? How did you make this decision?

NPL: Before writing my stories, I took several writing classes and read as much as I could about the memoir genre. Absorbing great advice from William Zinsser, Natalie Goldberg, Judith Barrington, and others, I realized that the essential element in any memoir is the author's own truth. Then I made a conscious decision to write as honestly and openly as I could about what I believed to be my truth -- both the good and the not-so-good experiences and the lessons learned. "The whole truth and nothing but the truth" became my motto. My nemesis, That Woman, taught me an important lesson: in her words, "Life is a series of tradeoffs." I believe we are able to make better choices when we are fully aware that any of our choices can, and usually do, rule out other options.

SL: Did writing about it reopen the wound and/or heal it?

NPL: It is important to note that the events took place more than twenty-five years ago. But, even though I approached the writing of this issue with resolve, I still suffered pangs of the long ago pain and anger. In fact, in the beginning I couldn't write it in first person. So I methodically outlined scenes and created character profiles for a fiction short story. About midway through my preparations, a bright light bulb lit and my story took its own direction toward an ending that turned out to be the complete opposite of what transpired in real life. The process was like picking a scab -- it drew a few drops of blood without completely opening the old wound -- and it took me right down to a basic level of healing. Experiencing an alternative choice (that is, to leave my husband) within the fictional account empowered me to let go of any residual anger I still harbored.

SL: How did you handle the matter of letting your husband know you planned to write (or had written) about this and include it in the finished manuscript? How did he react?

NPL: After I finished and polished the short story, I gave it to my husband. His comments revealed that the fictional account provided him new insights into my feelings. It also resurrected some of his old guilt and shame. We had a few valuable discussions on the subject, but he still seemed reluctant about "going public." He did, however, leave the final decision up to me.

SL: How did your children respond?

NPL: Our daughter, also a writer, gave me her complete support, both on the infidelity issue and also on the revelations about her own teenage problems. Our son gave no feedback. He explained that he couldn't bear to read the manuscript and thus verify that the best years of his life were in his childhood. Now, three months after publication, he says that he is reading the book and finds it "interesting to view those years through his mother's adult eyes." I hope to create an opportunity to hear more from him when he finishes reading.

SL: What sort of response have you gotten to that revelation from friends and relatives?

NPL: I also gave the manuscript before publication to my husband's younger sister and her husband. My sister-in-law urged me to examine my motives for telling about our marital woes. She wanted me to be sure I wasn't doing it to punish my husband or get revenge. That prompted another round of soul-searching for me.

One of the first copies of the published book went to a dear friend who gave excellent feedback on all aspects of the memoir. His heartfelt comments on our near-divorce had the most impact, especially when he revealed that what we thought was our "shameful secret" was actually known to many through the grapevine of our community. My husband and I both felt unburdened -- he no longer had to bear the weight of secrecy and I felt my courage had been vindicated.

SL: Would you do it again?

NPL: Absolutely.

SL: Thank you Nancy. Hopefully your answers will give hope, courage and guidance to others who face challenging situations and want to use writing to heal residual pain and anger.

Visit Nancy’s blog to read excerpts from the book and more.

Write Now: think of a challenging situation in your life and write about it as fiction. Give it a new ending. See how that shifts your point of view about the situation.

When Your Story Flips Upside-Down

A high school acquaintance recently pulled me into a Facebook group for people who grew up in Los Alamos – my tribe! They have posted pictures of historic scenes around Los Alamos and a lively forum-type discussion has sprung up about who remembers what and how. A fascinating sort of collaborative story is emerging with a type of shared, collective memory, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

One of the members is a retired LAHS chemistry teacher who arrived soon after I left. At some point I posted this comment:

Was Mr. Etherly still there when you arrived at LAHS? Or Mr. Cooper? Mr. E taught all the chem classes except the one I took from Mr. Cooper my senior year. I did not understand all the fuss from Mr. Etherly's students about how hard chemistry was. Mr. Cooper made it sooo easy! Then I took Chem 101 in college and had a seriously rude awakening. Alas! Mr. Cooper was a delightful man, and I always thought of him when my kids began watching Mr. Rogers. But a chemistry teacher he was not. Fortunately I was not meant to be a chemistry major, so no harm done, at least to me.

With gentle kindness, she replied that she had the highest regard for Mr. Cooper, and his students had loved him. “He was a fine teacher,” she said. Several of his past students agreed.

That’s when my mind went into spin mode. I felt a bit awkward and … confused. I pondered. I journaled. What was true? Was Mr. Cooper really a bumbling beginner who had been unable to control his class? Had I missed something? Suddenly I realized that not only had his class been genuinely fun, but everything I remember about chemistry traces back to his class, not the one at Texas Tech. Mr. Cooper made chemistry come to life and seem approachable. How many teachers can do that? I suddenly recognized his gift. He allowed the natural leaders in class to emerge, and let us feel engaged with it at our own best levels.

Then I remembered hearing that Chem 101 was a washout class at Texas Tech, intended to thin the herd and deter all but the most robust students from pursuing careers in science and engineering. That may not be all bad. In fact, it served me well. For a brief few weeks I actually considered majoring in chemistry. It did not take me long to see the folly of that decision.

When all was written and reflected upon, I realized that my attitude toward Mr. Cooper had been wrong-side out, and I owe both him and his compassionate colleague a debt of gratitude.

This group has sparked several re-visions and trance-formations in my Story, beyond many that have already occurred (see Your Own Magic Crystal Ball . Writing memoir becomes especially challenging when memories and perceptions are in such flux. Power tools for continuing to analyze and re-evaluate experience, then anchor it in story are especially valuable at times like this.

I collect power tools for life writers that are fun to use as well as enlightening. I will share a few of my favorites in February in Soaring High, Digging Deep, a three-week NAMW teleclass. This class will be an ideal opportunity to connect with others who may be helpful in shaking loose the shackles of assumptions and memory habits you’ve become accustomed to. Click here for more details and to sign up.

Write now: about a long-standing assumption you’ve had about someone . Challenge your beliefs about the person and see how they may change. Look for any silver linings in the cloud – or perhaps feet of clay in someone you’ve had on a pedestal that may have been a bit high.

Photo credit: Jason Rogers

Writing With All Your Senses — A Learnable Skill

When beginning writers read flowing prose full of dazzling descriptions, they may think, “I’ll never in a thousand years be able to write like that!” They may grow depressed and consider throwing their computer off a bridge. None of us are immune, as I pointed out in a past post, Inner Critic — Guide, Guard, or Enabler? 

When you hear that voice, rest assured that your Inner Critic is the source, and those words are both true and false. They are true because our writing voices are as personal and unique as our speaking voices. You could study and practice for fifty years and be equal in skill and reader impact, but you’ll never write exactly “like that.”

They are false because writing dazzling descriptions is a learnable skill. It takes practice and dedication and seeps into remote corners of life, but the results are worth the effort. In my experience, a three-pronged approach has worked well to hone description skills to a keen edge. One prong involves reading, another involves awareness of surroundings, and the third is deliberation.

I’m a deliberately slow reader. I savor words as a gourmet savors flavors. I always have a pad of sticky flags at hand when I’m reading a novel or memoir so I can flag words and phrases I admire. Some books may have only a couple; others bristle with them. When I read an innovative description, I roll it around, saying it out loud to practice the sound and feel of it, letting it sink deeply into my mind. I imagine how that author may have come up with it.

After I finish the book, I head for my computer and type the flagged passages into a Word document I’ve set up like a primitive database. I have over three dozen books logged there, perhaps half the number I’ve read since beginning the log. I review the file now and then when I need inspiration.

Turning to awareness of environment, when I see something unusual in my surroundings, I ponder ways to describe it. I consider its color, texture, shape -- anything unusual about it. I think about things it may remind me of as I search for metaphors and similes. I try to think out of the box and stretch to find new ideas, relying on the exercise I just mentioned — thinking about how other authors come up with the phrases I admire.

Finally, as I edit, I deliberate and seek fresh ways of stating things and artful ways of arranging the words I use. Free association and visualization are helpful.

This is art, and it has a musical component. You hear a lot about a writer’s voice. This is something we each develop. I may admire Rosamund Pilcher from daybreak to dusk, but my writing will never sound like hers. It won’t sound like Sue Grafton’s either, and certainly not like Steven King’s, or William Zinsser’s. My writing will sound like Sharon Lippincott’s, as it should. My challenge is to continually strive to stay on pitch and in rhythm to keep my voice as crisp and clear as it can be.

I will be sharing description writing secrets and strategies in an online class, Writing With All Your Senses, offered by Story Circle Network in January and February. Click for class and registration details.

Write now: scan the room around you and find one specific item that catches your eye, then write about it. Describe it in an unusual way, and strive to involve all your senses.

Photo credit: Rochelle

Barbara Tate’s West End Girls

Guest post by Harry Bingham gives some prepublication back story from an agent’s perspective showing the need to keep ourselves in our story and prune the extra text to highlight the true story.

When people ask me what I do, I never quite know what to tell them. I’m an author, yes, but I also work part-time running The Writers’ Workshop, an outfit in the UK which offers everything from editorial feedback to running writing courses. Needless to say, many of the manuscripts we receive are still fairly raw, some are good but not exciting – and some, a very few, are simply mind-blowing.

Early in 2009, I got such a manuscript through the letterbox. It was huge. 160,000 words or almost enough material for a 600 page book. And it was a memoir, every word of it true.

The author was an 82-year-old British woman, Barbara Tate, but she hadn’t written the manuscript recently – she’d written the whole thing back in the 1970s. And the story she told tracks back still further, to a two-year period in 1948-49, when the author was a young woman, newly independent in post-war London.

Barbara had had a truly difficult childhood. Her father had been dangerous, her mother neglectful. When Barbara was still very young, she found herself abandoned to the less than tender care of her grandmother. Indeed, although she wasn’t directly abused, her childhood was scarred by lovelessness. She’d never really been loved, never really had a friend.

Her two passions were painting and writing. She painted as often as she could, and signed up to correspondence writing courses when and if she could afford them.

Then, to her joy, she became old enough to leave home. She had a few temporary jobs and was working as a waitress in Soho – one of London’s more exotic areas – when she encountered a woman, the like of whom she’d never previously encountered. That woman was Mae: glamorous, impulsive, charming, spontaneous and warm. She was also a prostitute.

The two woman made friends instantly. Although Barbara was (and would remain) rather conservative in her values, she knew friendship when she saw it. She knew love.

Mae offered Barbara a position as her ‘maid’ – half-companion, half general helper. Barbara accepted.

The manuscript told the story of how that friendship developed: touching, astonishing, moving. The trouble was that the manuscript did lots of other things too. Barbara had felt uncomfortable telling her own story, and kept writing herself out of the picture. The manuscript was amazing, but not quite publishable.

Normally, we’d suggest that such a plainly gifted writer do the necessary editorial work themselves. One of our writing courses teaches self-editing skills that a younger Barbara could have made excellent use of. Or we could just have offered detailed feedback and let her make any corrections herself. But she was in her eighties and simply not physically strong enough to tackle the work involved. So we agreed to do it on her behalf: cutting 70,000 words from that giant manuscript to tease out the amazing story that lay buried within.

The shorter and more focused the manuscript became, the more appealing it grew. It was a delightfully surprising combination of chaste and raunchy, nostalgic and energetic. Most of all though, it told a story. About a friendship between two women. Explaining why that friendship arose in the first place, explaining why the friendship was finally doomed.

We sold that book direct to publishers in a competitive auction. It was published very well, got glowing reviews, and sat for weeks on the British bestseller lists. It deserved all its praise.

Tragically, Barbara died (peacefully) before the book was published, but she had met her publishers, signed a contract, seen a book cover. And before she died, she told me repeatedly, ‘Harry, this book is the crown of my life.’ Considering that, after her time in Soho, Barbara became one of the best known women painters in England, that’s high praise indeed. She used to remind me that while her art teacher had wanted her to become a painter, her English teacher had always urged her to write. It turned out that it wasn’t an either/or choice. She’d done both and done them brilliantly.

Harry Bingham is an author of fiction and non-fiction. He also runs the Writers’ Workshop which offers feedback on writing and a range of writing courses.

Metaphor for a New Year

Pictures make powerful story prompts, and this picture of a  crumbling sidewalk is no exception. It strikes me as a metaphor for our path thorough life and fits with the general theme of the new year and story.

Each New Year’s Day I’m reminded that life is a cyclical process. Each year exists within the “container” of twelve oscillating months that fit on a series of rectangular sheets roughly the shape of a sidewalk slab progressing through the year.

Though some may be similar, no two years are quite the same. Even on a newly poured sidewalk, you’ll find variations from one slab to the next, and by the time a sidewalk reaches the age and condition of this one, the differences among the sections are huge.

Each year in our lives has a story to tell. Although it’s anyone’s guess what it might be, it appears likely that each section of this sidewalk experienced some individually unique stresses, leading to its individual array of cracks, chunks and deformities.

This sidewalk is a visible record of the effects of a year – probably in reality a series of years. Our life writing, whether public or private is a visible record of the effects of years on our lives.

A freshly poured sidewalk traversing a lovely landscape is relatively uninteresting in its apparent uniformity and smoothness. It’s good for roller skating, pushing strollers, and playing hopscotch, but otherwise little more than a convenience for walking from place to place. A life with no challenges would be a dull life indeed.

This sidewalk is full of stories. It has repairs and subsidence and other areas that appear to be intact. Some spots are damp. How did this all happen? Is this the result of natural aging or damage? Has it experienced floods? Did a careless crane drop a wrecking ball? What might that have felt like, and how does the sidewalk see itself now? Various years evoke similar questions.

Looking toward the future, this sidewalk will need further repair to remain safe and useful. Lives sometimes need repair, and writing can be a powerful way to effect it.

Taken as a whole, this sidewalk is traveled by people on their way to a destination. Whatever the condition of the rest of the path, this section presents challenges to keep your balance and avoid stumbling. Some years are like that.

At this point my mind wanders to another task for today or tomorrow: updating my personal timeline – the rough equivalent of adding a new block to the sidewalk of my life. I see the similarity between my timeline and this sidewalk. Each year on my timeline is different. Some years were smooth, some were rough and challenging.

Like this sidewalk, the challenging years are the most intriguing, the most likely to provide insight, and the most likely to intrigue readers if I write about them.

I find a certain sort of dignified beauty in this sidewalk, and also in years of challenge.

Write now: Update your personal timeline. Start one if you don’t have one. Pick a year that was especially challenging and write about it. Describe each of the fragments, and how it came to be. What did it mean to you then, and what lessons have you learned? Use this sidewalk graphic as a prompt if it fits.

Photo credit: Bart Everson