Writing Memoir

My writing table at Gold Hill

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Now, onto the topic of writing memoir. Memoir comes in many forms as you probably are well aware. I’m a fan of memoir. Before memoirs were “a thing” I used to read biographies and autobiographies (I still do, but there are way more memoir books). When I read Mary Karr’s “The Liar’s Club,” I decided to write one of my own.

In November 1988, I was awarded the prize of six weeks solo residency in a mountain cabin at Gold Hill, Oregon. I started the residency in mid-January 1989. I’d never written a book before, only poems and plays. But I figured I’d probably need 600 pages, so I decided to write 100 pages a week. January 1989. I didn’t own a laptop, or even a home computer yet. I brought a manual typewriter, extra typing ribbon, and two reams of paper. I also brought paper, pencils, and pens for hand-writing.

When I got to the cabin, it was rustic, isolated, and needed a good cleaning. I spent the first two days cleaning. It had electricity and running water. A tiny galley kitchen, and one big room with kitchen table and chairs, a couch, and an easy chair. The heat came from an old Franklin woodstove. They provided me with cut firewood which I would haul up to the cabin in a wheelbarrow.

The bathroom was outside the kitchen door on the bridge that crossed over a flowing creek. It had toilet, sink, and shower. The bedroom was a simple loft above the living room. There was a ladder, and almost no headroom.

I brought six weeks of supplies with me, because I wouldn’t have a car (my girlfriend drove me down, and would come get me in six weeks). No phone, no tv, no radio.

I figured if I wrote five days a week, thirty pages a day, I could meet my goal. I started by making a list of sixty-three stories or incidents I wanted to include. Then I started writing.

I would write for a few hours, then go for a walk, or take a nap, or both. I wrote from daybreak to dusk. Some days I couldn’t face the typewriter, so I wrote by hand.

I chose to write about my life from age eleven to sixteen. Those were some tough years, with tough stories. Some of the stories were light and more fun. On the days I was tackling a hard subject, I would take breaks, stand at the window by the table, and just cry.

I missed people. I missed talking on the phone. I missed my cat. Fortunately, there was a cat and a big yellow dog to occasionally keep me company. The woman who lived in the house on the property was off visiting friends or relatives. Up the hill was the family who managed the place, including the farm. They looked after the dog and cat, but both were free to roam and took walks with me.

Yellow dog walking with me

There were chickens too. I was told they didn’t lay eggs in the winter, but they hung around by the creek during the day, and I could hear them clucking. I decided to talk to them every day, and apparently this gave them a reason to start laying eggs, winter or not. I could have as many eggs as I wanted. (I was also offered beef, but no thanks. I was a long-time vegetarian even then.)

Three or four weeks into the residency, the weather turned frigid. We got a lot of snow, and then the pipes froze. The pipes were outside, unprotected, so no wonder. But now I had no running water, and deep snow to get through to haul wood. Plus I was burning up so much wood in the Franklin, I was afraid I’d run out. The fire went out every night while I was sleeping, so I’d have to fire it up first thing when I awoke. I was wearing many layers of clothing, plus hat and gloves to sleep, and still shivered.

But every morning, I’d get up, start the fire, and go to work. (The pipes didn’t get repaired until the temperatures were above freezing, so no hot water for coffee.)

At the end of four weeks, I was getting close to my page count goal, so I asked the managers for a ride into town so I could make a phone call. I called home and asked my girlfriend to come get me the following weekend.

At some point during my residency, two reporters from the Denver Post came to interview me. It was one of the few times I interacted with humans during my stay.

Here I am at the door of the cabin, yellow dog in foreground

At the end of five weeks, I had 600 pages, and I went back home.

It took another couple of years before I could get the pages onto a computer, and I had to pay someone to do that. Then I edited the work (it was full of types and codes from the transfer to the computer) for another few months. (I was working full time at my job.)

I never had it published. I didn’t send it around. I talked to one publisher, and gave up.

However, I mined the book for short stories and plays for ages. At one point, I read the memoir on the radio for an hour a week. I had over 700 distinct listeners during that time. Then I felt completely done with it.

Mostly. Periodically, I would look at it and cut more pages. (Turns out no one wants a 600 page memoir unless you’re Barbara Streisand, lol.)

Last fall I saw a call for 200 pages fiction or non-fiction, and I submitted the memoir after further editing it down to less than 200 pages. If they decide to publish it, I’ll get paid money and some free copies. If they decide not to, I plan to self-publish. Either way, you can look forward to a finished (and polished) product.

Other forms of memoir I’ve written include several plays and many poems. Some of them arose from this specific time period.

Currently, I’m writing a poem a day with the Stafford Challenge. I missed two days while I was in hospital, but I wrote extra to make up for those days.

Please tell me about which, if any, memoirs you have enjoyed. If you’re writing one or have written one, I’d love to hear about that as well.