A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.
― Mark Twain
Memory is a fleeting thing. Fallible as memory can be, writers depend on it when writing memoirs. Everyone wants to write a memoir these days, so much so that examples have been multiplying exponentially since Mary Karr published her genre-upending memoir, The Liar’s Club. So popular is the genre that Mary Karr wrote a how-to book on the topic, The Art of Memoir. She notes, though, that dysfunction alone will not make great memoir. If so, most of us could write truly terrific ones!
Nowadays, memoirs ranging from singer Alicia Key’s More Myself: A Journey to renowned writer Rebecca Solnit’s Recollections of My Nonexistence shoot to the top of the bestseller lists. And with the slew of tell-alls by former Trump associates – Michael Cohen’s Disloyal a prime example of that subset of memoir – the avid memoir buff faces a large pool of possible reading material.
Why memoir? What drives readers to clamor for more, more, more?
Probably because many people – whether they wish to admit such a thing or not – really want a peek at the dirty laundry and sins of others, lapping up the details like a barn cat at the milk trough after a night of rat hunting.
Writing memoir requires a level of recall of past days and hours beyond the scope of most people. I don’t know about you, but a friend once told me – correctly, I think – that many of us live life on autopilot, going about our days in a state of suspended animation as it were. Life tends to fly by.
Today’s Wednesday, tomorrow’s Thursday. Trash day. Again. Seems like 5 minutes ago … .
Time is a funny thing, a harsh taskmaster and a healer all rolled up into one word.
One memoir I’ve read over and over again – the words scraping like sandpaper on thin skin – comes from the brain of Harry Crews. A Childhood: The Biography of a Place ticks all the boxes for a good biography, the most important being the devil in the details.
The raw emotions.
The torturous feelings.
The soul-rattling storytelling.
Not just the usual narrative characteristic of many memoirs, devoid of a life force, the “I did this, they did that, we went there, they came here” genre. How did it feel when the author stepped in the mud, when he or she bit into a stew and discovered a tiny head?
But there’s more.
I actually cared about the narrator, Crews, and couldn’t pull myself away from the page. I thrust that book on a lot of people, saying “Read this, then you’ll know.”
What will you know by the time you reach page 192 and close this gut-wrenching book?
What poverty does to the soul. What despair tastes like. What hate robes itself in, what disguises it wears. And what love can and cannot do.
Years later, I am back living in the very same town where Crews died on March 2012, aged 76.
As I walk under the Spanish moss swaying from the magnolia trees, eerie and heart-stopping beautiful when the sun shines hot through their gossamer laciness, I think of what Crews said about writing in general, not just memoir.
In other words, memoir that sings includes more than just intricate accounts of the quotidian. The gripping memoir strives to be more than a chronological accounting, not a ledger-like listing. Or a recap of great meals eaten in idyllic locales.
The devil is in the details, burning hot with boiling, salty tears.