Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 254

You guys,

I’m writing a memoir that spans ten years (2011-2021). Most of the time I’m writing from the perspective of my past self, as the events occurred, but something that keeps coming up over and over again is the question of when to insert present knowledge about the past. When should I share thoughts, insights, reflections from my current self about my past self, and when should I just let the story speak for itself?

Today’s podcast episode attempts to answer these questions with the guidance of Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd, the writer/editor duo and co-authors of Good Prose: The Art of Nonfiction.

When Tracy Kidder was writing his memoir he had been ashamed of things from his past— including a novel he had written and the way he had acted when he was a young lieutenant—and he wanted the reader to know that, too.

“In that first draft, I had described my novel scornfully, lest the reader wonder for a moment about my current taste. Todd told me, ‘Play the novel for comedy. The flatter the better.’ He also said, apropos of the whole story, ‘Do without foreknowledge.’ That is, don't set us up by trying to disown the young lieutenant. Repossess him. Or, as Todd put it at one point that evening, ‘Just be there.’”

I had, in an early draft of my book, disowned a past version of myself. I wrote the following about an ex-boyfriend:

“The day before I left for Mexico John texted. He wanted to get together for coffee. I asked him what for and he said something about being friends. I sent him one final text—something angry and immature that I can’t remember—and then I blocked him.”

It is only in hindsight that I think the text I sent was immature. At the time, I thought it was strong, appropriate, and deserved. If I followed Todd’s advice to just be there, with my past self, I never would have written that my text was angry and immature.

In the rewrite I deleted the whole thing. Why had I wanted to include it in the first place? It was a way to show that I had the last word in the relationship even though he broke up with me. In the end, I was strong and victorious. In the end, I won.

That is self-praise. And there is no place for it in memoir. The authors write, “But the good and honest memoir is neither revenge nor self-justification, neither self-celebration nor self-abnegation. It is a record of learning.”

At another point in my memoir I felt compelled to share with the reader that I was embarrassed about a blog post I’d written, but this time, I allowed myself to just be there.

“I knew nothing about screenwriting but didn’t want to come empty handed so I printed out copies of a blog post I’d written and brought it with me to West Hollywood that first night. It was about my high school basketball experience and was my favorite piece I’d written. Part of it was about one of my teammates, a high school friend who I referred to as hot-headed, emotional, and a complete bully. ‘She was the player the other team hated—and who could blame them?’ Meanwhile, I ‘always put on a strong face at practice and games,’ and ‘if there was anything extra I could do, I did.’ I hoped they’d be impressed.”

I could have explained to the reader that I was embarrassed by this blog post I’d written, that I’d villainized a friend of mine and then wrote myself as both the victim and the hero. But there’s no need for that. If I feel cringe when I read those words, chances are the reader might feel similarly. But if I explain that something is cringey, then the reader can no longer feel it for themselves, AND the reader can sense that I don’t believe them to be smart enough to get it on their own.

So when does it make sense to convey present knowledge about the past?

In another chapter of my book I was writing about a time when I explained to my friend that I was doing drugs but I assured her it was harmless. She did not say much back to me at the time. After I’d written the scene I added these lines:

“Kylie would tell me, years later when I reached out to her about this book, that she did not recognize me when I told her these things, that she cried for weeks because she was so far away and she didn’t know what to do, that she almost called my mom.”

I wanted to give more context for how Kylie felt at that time, because I wanted to show how serious the situation was. If I wrote it only from the past there would be no way for the reader to know that Kylie was very worried, because I, at that time, didn’t know that she was.

So it is never okay to include present knowledge if that knowledge is self-congratulatory or self-condemning. The question of whether and what kind of present knowledge to include is more tricky. Is it a fact or a perspective that makes the story more compelling? Does it have anything to do with the overarching themes?

Later in my book, I recalled a time when I hosted a food and drink tour in my town, and the feelings I had around it. I ended the paragraph with present knowledge about what those feelings meant:

“Six months later I hosted my first tour of six guests. Two of them folded a cash tip in my hand as they said goodbye. More tours were booked. Every evening I had a tour I got in my car and my mind raced with questions. What would the people be like? Would they enjoy it? Would I remember the bits of history of downtown to tell them about as we walked from place to place? Was it going to rain? It was a twenty minute drive of dread. It would be another five years before I read Abigail Thomas’ memoir, Still Life At Eighty, and her definition of dread: ‘a red hot screaming message that something has to change.’”

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Until next week,

Charlie

P.S. Two weeks ago (and seven months after I submitted it) my essay was rejected by the New York Times. That very same day, the path to publishing my book became clear. Listen to the podcast as I lay out my plan!