Present Tense

Because it’s the hottest new upcoming genre on the publishing scene?

Perhaps. God knows writing about one’s own self is nothing new, but memoir has been very popular for about the last ten years. Recently James Frey famously taught us that labeling fiction as memoir can make your work more interesting and publishable.

But not everyone is as mercenary.

Listening to a broadcast on NPR earlier this month, I was astonished to hear the family of a former slave discuss their ancestor. The radio show featured David Blight’s new book, A Slave No More, which includes two never before published escape narratives written by former slaves. To celebrate the stories coming to light, the show invited three generations of Washington’s–descendants of one of the authors–to discuss their ancestor’s story.

Okay, fine. But here’s the astonishing part: Until Blight approached them, they had no idea their ancestor was a slave. The whole story was news to them. News to most of the people in the family. A family secret, even to the family.

Discussing the reasons why the manuscript may have been hidden, the eldest Washington (granddaughter to the author) mentioned the stigma of being a former slave, of their earlier generations wanting to put those years behind them. Thirty years past the Civil Rights Movement, this stigma seemed a little odd, especially now that we celebrate these types of narratives.

This former slave probably had little formal school. His family didn’t want him broadcasting his past. And even though he had written his story after the Civil War, he was still writing in a hostile world, with the odds decidedly against him. But he found the time and inclination to write it all out. Maybe he just wanted to leave a record for his ancestors. Maybe he wanted to better understand his journey.

Or maybe he just new it was a good one. Too good to let go to waste.

Until I read about it on Sarah’s blog, I wasn’t sure what a meme was.

Now I realize it’s one of those things that sweeps across the Internet, making me feel all old and unhip. The last one I remember was All Your Base Are Belong To Us. Apparently you don’t need a poorly translated Japanese video game to attempt this sort of thing, as my friends are asking me to participate in our own grass roots phenomenon. We’re writing a meme about our strengths as writers.

My three greatest strengths as a writer are 1) having had good teachers, 2) being militantly on my own side, and 3) sticking it out for the long haul.

I had excellent writing teachers in college. I knew they were good teachers at the time, but I didn’t realize what an asset this was for me until recently. Not long ago a guy with an MFA started at my day job and he explained to me that writing workshops have gone out of style. A dozen years ago the workshop was the highlight of my academic experience. There may have been a few in-class written exercises, possibly even a (short) lecture or two. But in the writing classes, we mostly workshopped. My friend with the MFA explained that writing classes that focus exclusively on workshops are now generally viewed as a poor idea, because students tend to rip one another’s work apart. I can see how that would happen (especially in an MFA program). There’s someone like that in every class. In my undergraduate classes, it wasn’t so much that my teachers managed to carve out a safe place in their classrooms (they certainly did), but rather they taught us how to figure out what was working in a piece and to focus on that part. This, I think, has made all the difference. So here’s to Louise DeSalvo, Jenny Shute, Bill Root, and Donna Masini (I’m sure I’ve forgotten a few).

Being militantly on your own side is a phrase I read in an Anne Lamott book, but I immediately decided to steal it for my own. To me it means sticking up for my work, no matter what the consequences. Probably the result of a lifetime of low self-esteem, here is how it works: I pretend my work (especially new work) is like the retarded little brother I never had. My work may slobber a little when it laughs, have cowlicks that jut oddly from its skull, or wear its pants pulled way up above its bellybutton. In my heart I know that each of these deficiencies will have to be looked at and objectively weighed and ultimately sorted out. That’s all okay. But nobody gets to disrespect my retarded little brother.

Sticking it out for the long haul just means consistently finding time to write. Somehow I manage to find a little time each week to devote to writing. If anything, I owe Holly a huge debt of gratitude for her support. And in return I am going to tag her to write about her strengths as a writer.

Holly Huckeba

Frank McCourt is one of my favorite writers. On my desk at work I keep a little Saint Francis statue in Frank’s honor. The childhood memoir I’m currently working on is modeled after Angela’s Ashes. I like how he doesn’t try to intellectualize about his relationship with his father. I like how he isn’t afraid to let the story speak for itself. He never pontificates beyond the glib message that the miserable Irish Catholic childhood is possibly the worst of all childhoods. And then he goes on to show you that this may very well be an understatement. You have to appreciate a story teller so talented.

But Frank McCourt is no performer.

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