How I Realized that Poetry Alone Was Not Enough to Convey the Story in My Memoir

Guest Post by Madelyn Sharples

Madeline Sharples’ memoir began as a collection of poems, that she thought would suffice to record her memories of living with her son’s bipolar disorder and subsequent suicide. In this invited post she explains how she realized poetry alone would not suffice.

My memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On: a Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide consists of a mix of prose, poetry, and photos. And if I could have put music into it I would have.

I originally dreamed about publishing a memoir in poems. I had a finished poetry manuscript early on and since poetry came out almost miraculously from my pen soon after my son died, I thought telling his and my story in poems would be most appropriate.

But I was soon convinced the poems could not stand-alone. My book would lack the details, characterization depth, and the thoughts and feelings of my husband Bob and surviving son Ben that were necessary in the telling of our whole family’s story. The poems provided the chapter themes and emotional impact, the prose provided the details and descriptions, and the photos helped to make the story seem more real.

Early on my son Ben introduced me to a former literary agent who asked to read the poetry manuscript. After her reading she suggested I use the order of the poems as a way to organize my book’s chapters. And that organization stayed mostly intact in the final book manuscript. This young woman also generously gave me writing prompts that helped me flesh out my story in prose. I worked with her in developing the first draft of my memoir for about a year.

As I began to introduce more prose into the manuscript, using my huge supply of journal entries, pieces I wrote in various writing classes, and my advisor’s wonderful writing prompts, I formed chapters each starting with a poem. Then I began to worry that interested agents would reject my book because of the poetry. That concern was not unfounded. As I looked for appropriate agents I found more and more who did not want to be involved in poetry books in any way. I even work-shopped the book and was advised by my instructor to take the poems out.

I also remembered the words of a good friend. She told me no one had the right to tell me that I had to take something out of my book if I, the author, felt it belonged in it. So, I kept the poems in although I didn’t mention their existence in my query letters. I thought I’d discuss the poetry later if it ever came up. Even then I was still waffling about leaving them in or taking them out.

Although I never found an agent to represent my book, I happily contracted with a small traditional press. My publisher asked me to revise my book in many ways, but her only suggestion about the poetry in the book was that I should add more. She resonated with my final decision to include poetry in my memoir.

Madeline Sharples studied journalism in high school and college and wrote for the high school newspaper, but only started to fulfill her dream to work as a creative writer and journalist late in life. Her memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On: A Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide, tells the steps she took in living with the loss of her oldest son, first and foremost that she chose to live and take care of herself as a woman, wife, mother, and writer. She hopes that her story will inspire others to find ways to survive their own tragic experiences.

Madeline’s mission since the death of her son is to raise awareness, educate, and erase the stigma of mental illness and suicide in hopes of saving lives. She and her husband of forty plus years live in Manhattan Beach, California, a small beach community south of Los Angeles. Her younger son Ben lives in Santa Monica, California with his wife Marissa. Click to visit Madeline’s blog, Choices, and on Red Room.com.

Read my Amazon.com review of Leaving the Hall Light On.

Write now: if you write poetry, find a poem or few and write a narrative version of the story they tell. Those like me, who lack the poetry gene or muse, can find a photo and do the same exercise.

You Can’t Trust Memory!

I would have bet half the farm that this picture I drew was an accurate representation of my first backyard in Albuquerque. I would have lost half that farm.

I pulled out my 64 color box of fragrant Crayolas a dozen years ago and had a blast drawing a vivid memory of that backyard, calling on artistic skills little improved since I last sat on that swing. I remembered sitting inside a curtain of leaves on the pictured stump of one of the four trunks of that willow tree. A second stump, hidden in the picture behind the two intact trunks, was cut off somewhat higher, about shoulder level for me as I sat on the lower one. I drew the grass beneath the tree, and my sandbox back somewhat behind the tree to the left. The chicken house is in the back, along with the storage shed.

Sometime later I asked my father when the two trunks had been amputated. He had no idea what I was talking about. “That tree had four trunks,” he insisted. “We never cut any off.”

His report was a jolt, but the nail in my memory’s coffin came when I reviewed blurry photos from the first roll of film I took with my first camera when I was three. This one settled the matter in my mind and convinced me, I can’t trust my memory. Mother is sitting on something – I have no idea what – in what passed for my sandbox, and the tree clearly has four trunks. There is no grass under that tree!

Where the devil did that memory of sitting on the stump having a tea party with my doll come from? I have no idea.

A later photo shows that later I did have a proper sandbox with  wooden sides around it, and as I think about it, the sandbox never could have been back where I drew it. That area was over the septic tank, and I didn’t have to be told twice not to walk there – it could cave in!

In the larger scheme of things, it doesn’t matter a bit whether I sat on that stump or not, whether the yard had grass, or the state and position of my sandbox. I’ve enjoyed that stump scene pretty much forever. To me, that’s still the true memory, whatever the evidence shows. So how should I handle this schizzy memory?

When I wrote The Albuquerque Years, a memoir of my preschool years, I intended it as a family historical document. I wanted it to be as accurate as possible, so in the face of the evidence, I chose to simply ignore the faulty-but-cherished memory of the tree stumps. The memoir is written as a simple past tense narrative, tightly confined to those few years, so there was no way to discuss discrepant memories, and it didn’t fit with the rest of the content anyway.

If my purpose were more literary and the structure more sophisticated, I might include my original memory, mentioning how happy I felt sitting there looking at blue sky peeking through green willow leaves with the scent of roses and honeysuckle wafting my way on gently balmy breezes that caressed my skin. That’s a memory I return to now in meditative moments. The memory carries its own truth, and I would let it stand on its own, with no further explanation.

This trivial example applies equally well to more substantial situations. One aim of a memoir is to document changes and insights, so it’s entirely appropriate to include discussion of discoveries such as mine – but only if they fit within the framework and structure of the story.

Write now: write about a time you discovered you remembered something wrong. What implications did the discovery have? How did you handle it? How might you incorporate this discover in a larger story?

The Passing of a Grand Dog

With deep sorrow, I announce the death of my only granddog, Walker, who succumbed today to the ravages of bone cancer in Austin, Texas.

At the risk of alienating half my readers, although I fully understand and respect their importance and value to others, I admit that I’m not a dog person. I don’t want to take care of a dog or be tied down to a dog’s schedule. I don’t like being jumped on (my friend Martha the Dog Trainer could help with that), I don’t like having dogs climb into my lap, I hate being licked, and doggie smell is one of my least favorite ones.

Only two dogs in my adult life have nuzzled all the way through these barriers to my heart. One was my father’s miniature Alaskan, Pixie, who could have charmed a smile from Ebenezer Scrooge. The other was my daughter’s rescued greyhound, Walker. Perhaps the fact that neither of them lived with me helped seal my half of our mutual affection, but neither of them jumped on me, invaded my space, or licked me, and their doggie smell was mild.

When my daughter announced yesterday that Walker was in such constant pain that his meds no longer worked and all he could do was moan, she asked that friends and family send stories about him as a memorial. That’s a request I was happy to oblige.

I described the way our relationship began with a good crotch sniff and was cemented with dozens of trips out to check Walker’s “Pee-Mail.’ Greyhounds lack a keen sense of smell or direction, so he was hopeless as a guide, but on our rambles I had amble time to ogle some of the most elegant and historic mansions in Austin.

I mentioned how gentle and patient he was with occasionally rough tots, and his antics when left alone long enough to get bored. I recalled how his lean good looks and knowing gaze reminded me of a canine Sean Connery, and when he wore his scarlet paisley fleece “smoking jacket”, I imagined he had a long black cigarette holder and martini stashed nearby. He was straight out of Esquire and perfectly suited to play the lead in spy thrillers.

Since I spent only a few weeks with Walker in the eight years he lived with my daughter’s family, my stories are limited, but I hope that they are a comfort now, and a source of memories for my granddaughters in years to come.

Especially for those of us who do not have animals in our daily lives, it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that their passing leaves a void in the lives of their immediate human families as surely as if they were also human. Just as stories of departed people help us through their passing, so pet stories can ease pet owners through this knothole of loss.

Write now: about animals in your life, past or present. Perhaps they were your own pets, maybe borrowed ones, or even wild animals that touched your spirit. Write about someone else’s animal and share the story with them.

Red Ink, Green Ink: Stop or Grow?

Red is the color of danger, a universal signal to stop. The mere thought of red ink splattered on pages triggers fear, maybe a slightly sick feeling. Fingers freeze, brains block. Creativity comes to a halt.

Stop right there!

Rather than launch into a lecture on the Inner Critic you know so well, let’s look at a fun work-around for times when you are in a red-ink frame of mind.

Write with green ink.

Green is the symbol for “Go” and “Grow.” It’s a safe, nurturing color of fertility and creation. As odd as it may sound, whether you write on paper or the computer, changing your ink color can make a difference in how your words flow, but you must try it yourself to experience the power. Use a green ink pen, or set the font on your computer screen to green. While you’re at it, try a new paper color, on-screen or under your hand. You can find more information and instructions for doing this in an old post, Write It Your Way.

For yet another variation, with or without color change, try a new handwriting style or font. If you usually use script, try printing, or use a different slant, or different type of pen. On the computer, try a new font.

Playing with  color and fonts is easy to do, and you can quickly change back to something more traditional by editing the Normal style (or Text Body – whatever your default is) that word processing programs use to make sure everything looks the same. When you change it, you only change it for that document, so have no fear. (Check for YouTube videos to teach you everything about styles.)

It’s easy to find fun fonts for free on the web, but it’s also easy to get totally lost in a web of spam sites as you search, or you could click the wrong button and inadvertently install malware along with your free selection.

One site I like, that at the time of this writing is still immediately accessible and safe, is 1001 Free Fonts. I suggest clicking the Handwriting category found in a block near the top. That link will access eight pages of alphabetically arranged “handwriting” fonts.

The site has reliable links at the bottom to find yet  more options. Just pay extra attention to any download links. Sometimes it’s hard to find the actual file you want rather than some “downloader” program you neither need nor want.

As a general note of caution, when downloading anything, double-check each and every screen to be certain what you are authorizing before clicking “Next.” If it isn’t exactly what you expected, stop the process. There is usually some way to skip or cancel the “suggested” toolbar, download helper or other app that generates revenue for the provider of the free software at the expense of your privacy and system integrity.  If not, you really don’t want that free download – it isn’t free!

If you need help figuring out how to use the fonts you download, this site tells you everything you need to know about installing and using new fonts on any operating systems.

Even if you aren’t feeling stuck, try a new color and a new font to match your mood and add zest to your story.

 Write now: Have some fun. Download a handwriting font or two and install them on your system. Look around your page formatting options and find the spot to change your page color. Find a color you like, or maybe a texture instead, and set your font color to a nice strong green. Now you are ready to tackle a tough story. You can change it back to standard color and layout later if you want, but for now, try the green.

Flat As a Shadow

My write brain feels flat and gray as a shadow.

If I were writing on paper, the wastebasket would be overflowing with crumpled blog post drafts. Since I’m at a keyboard, cyberspace is awash in electron static whirling off my hard drive as my brain spins and my fingers flail, trying to gain purchase on the page.

Each of those posts began with a great idea that I may eventually find a way to develop. Right now they are flat. Flat as a pancake. Flat as a board. Flat as stale beer. Flat as the hat an elephant stomped. You get the idea.

I think I know the problem: I’ve been reading blog posts and advice articles with titles like 7 Tips for Captivating Readers, or Bore into Readers’ Brains for Keeps. (Don’t go searching for these articles. I made up the titles. Besides – why would you go looking for something I just described as trouble?)

The advice wasn’t bad. The concepts they espouse are solid and useful. Maybe. Sometimes, for some people. Trying to follow those formulas drained all the life from my words, sucking them dry. The resulting posts sound like they came from fill-in-the-blank templates. They are preachy and BORING. They sound like I’m determined to write until I reach a certain word count.

The problem is they lack passion. They lack heart. They take someone else’s idea and try to embellish it beyond what it deserves and that makes them preachy. You deserve better.

They violated a key rule in the first chapter of The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing:

There is no write way to write.
Try lots of things. Find what works
for YOU, and run with that.

Obviously there was one key piece of advice missing from all that wisdom:

Write from your heart first, then apply the craft.

If that sounds like a formula, it is, and it’s the exception to the rule. It’s the one formula that will prevent blog-by-number posts and same-old, same-old stories.

That’s the story, that’s the message, and that’s all that needs to be said.

Write now: strip a story down to its basics and write those, only those. Don’t embellish in any way until that story is finished.