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Anthology Editing: Advice and Insights from Those Who’ve Been There

Photo by Edz Norton on Unsplash

Today’s post is by poet and freelance writer Lisa Timpf.

Having contributed to a number of anthologies, I’ve often wondered what goes on behind the scenes. I’ve thought about trying to land a job as an anthology editor, but so far, fear of the unknown has held me back. To help me make the decision—and to better prepare in case I did take the plunge—I decided to gather input from those who have been there.

Jamie Dopp, who co-edited Not Hockey: Critical Essays on Canada’s Other Sport Literature, Christine Lowther, editor of Worth More Standing: Poets and Activists Pay Homage to Trees, and Nina Munteanu, co-editor of Through the Portal: Tales from a Hopeful Dystopia, kindly answered my questions about their experiences as anthology editors. Margaret Curelas, publisher of Tyche Books, and Carol Hightshoe, publisher and editor of Wolfsinger Publications, also offered their viewpoints.

What the job entails

In the case of Tyche Books, Curelas says, “Anthology editors write the Call for the Submissions, expanding on their theme or idea that they pitched to me.” Anthology editors are also tasked with handling submissions (receiving, accepting, or passing), as well as selecting the stories to be included in the anthology and working with the authors on content editing. While some anthology editors also perform copyediting, Curelas notes that Tyche has “a separate copyeditor to go over the entire manuscript.”

Wolfsinger’s process is similar. Anthology editors decide on the stories to be included and work with the contributors to refine the selected pieces, and the publisher sends out final proofs so that any corrections that need to made are captured. Hightshoe also notes that, ideally, she hopes anthology editors and included authors will help to promote the anthology to their readers.

What skills are needed?

From the descriptions of the anthology editor’s role, it’s clear that content editing skills, the knowledge of what makes a story, poem, or nonfiction piece work, and some copyediting ability are among the basic requirements. But those who have edited anthologies note that other skills and attributes are also useful.

Storytelling: Munteanu says anthology editors should also be good storytellers. “Most anthologies have some theme or at least some logical narrative that they follow and the editor must recognize how a submission can fit into that ‘story’,”  Munteanu says. Dopp adds that storytelling applies to individual pieces too. In his case, working with a nonfiction anthology, he had to “challenge people who are writing in a more … academic way to try to get them to write something that was more of a compelling read.”

Organization skills: Curelas says organization skills are essential. “There’s a lot of information to keep track of and a lot of authors to wrangle … if you can’t keep track of deadline or where you’ve filed an author’s revisions, it doesn’t matter if you’re a stellar editor.”

Communication and negotiation skills: Munteanu observes that in many cases, an anthology editor “must act as a negotiator” by discussing desired changes and convincing authors of the desirability of those changes. The ability to communicate clearly and directly is important.

Flexibility: More than one of the interviewees noted that sometimes, despite your best efforts, you need to be willing to let go of a piece you might have liked to include. This could be necessary for a number of reasons, including the author’s unwillingness, or inability, to make the necessary changes to the piece.

The ability to deal with difficult situations: Rejecting pieces can be tricky, Lowther notes. She’s had the experience of having to reject friends’ work, while at the same time knowing “how hurt they were.” She’s also encountered angry retorts from writers whose work was not chosen.

Willingness to go outside your comfort zone: Dopp notes, “In my teaching practice, I’m more of a nurturer. I want to be encouraging. But when editing there were some writers who could not get to the quality of what we were looking for.” Dealing with that, he notes, was a challenge.

The payoffs of anthology editing

Though some anthologies don’t pay editors, many do. Some publishers compensate anthology editors with a flat rate, some pay royalties, and others offer an advance plus royalties.

But the benefits of serving as an anthology editor go beyond cash compensation. Interviewees listed skill building, a better understanding of the publishing process, and the opportunity to mentor other writers as benefits of anthology editing. There’s also the opportunity to explore a theme you’re passionate about, and the satisfaction of creating a finished product you can take pride in.

Landing the job

Among the interviewees, a number had pitched anthology ideas to publishers they or one of their co-editors had worked with in the past. Some publishers, like Beaches and Trails, invite individuals to apply for anthology editing roles, working on themes determined by the publisher. Others, like Tyche and Wolfsinger Publications, entertain anthology pitches during their submission periods. Curelas and Hightshoe offered suggestions for those wishing to pitch an anthology idea.

Do your homework: Curelas emphasizes the importance of being familiar with the publisher you’re pitching to. “Check out the website, read over submission guidelines, look at their catalog. Does your idea fit what the publisher is producing? Have you read any of their books, and did you like them?”

Show your enthusiasm: Hightshoe notes that “typically it’s the enthusiasm of the editor and whether the theme of the anthology appeals to me enough that I would want to write a story” that sells the pitch.

Advice from those who have been there

Read early, accept after the deadline: Lowther notes that when she edited Worth More Standing, she read submissions as they came in. “I was soon accumulating many poems that used clichés to describe trees, e.g., arms instead of branches; military language like ‘standing sentinel’,” says Lowther. “So I was able to send out requests saying ‘Please, no military lexicon.’”

She advises waiting until the submission deadline have passed before sending acceptances. That way, she says, “You will know how many pieces you have with similar approaches and can choose the best one.”

Stay true to the theme: Munteanu says anthology editors should “be flexible and ready to compromise but keep true to the theme and meaning of the anthology. This is of prime importance; if you waver on this, it will bite you in so many ways.”

When co-editing, set guidelines: Lowther says, “If you decide to co-edit, have processes in place that will save the day when disagreements arise.” Dopp says he and co-editor Angie Abdou divided the work, with “a little bit of consultation between us.” Munteanu, who co-edited Through the Portal with Lynn Hutchinson, notes, “When we disagreed, we discussed and came to an equitable conclusion that both could accept.” For Through the Portal, each co-editor also had one chance to override the other, which worked out well. As Munteanu notes, “Collaboration is not a zero-sum game; it is all about consensus and respecting others in a mutualistic scenario.”

Understand there are degrees of acceptance: Munteanu says it’s not always as simple as rejecting or accepting a piece. She notes several conditions she ran across: “unconditional acceptance (easy; very few cases); conditional acceptance (most cases); rejection but possible acceptance following conditions met (always a few); rejection (also an easy choice most of the time).” Munteanu adds, “Stories that fell in the middle were often the most challenging, given the necessary back and forth toward final acceptance and inclusion.”

Be patient: Editing an anthology, Dopp says, is “a long process.” Munteanu concurs, noting that Through the Portal “took three years from our initial call for submissions to the release of the book.”

Given the amount of time it can take from start to finish, Lowther says prospective editors should “make sure that working on others’ writing is your passion, and that it wouldn’t be merely keeping you from your own writing.”

Be sensitive to diversity: Lowther notes that anthology editors should “try hard to create diverse collections.” She adds, “We need to be able to spot inappropriate references and assumptions, both in ourselves and in submitted work that comes to us.” One aspect that was important to Lowther was making an effort “to stay current with honouring the Indigenous whose land we live and work on.” To assist with this, she kept a copy of Elements of Indigenous Style by Gregory Younging handy.

Be aware of generative AI: Curelas notes, “Some magazine publishers are getting swamped with generative AI stories, which are usually sub-standard in quality. Anthology editors and their publishers have to be alert for those submissions; I’m seeing an increasing amount of ‘no AI submissions’ in calls and writing guidelines.” If generative AI stories aren’t something you want in your anthology, it’s helpful to state that upfront.

Final words

Thanks to input from the individuals interviewed, I have a better idea of what to expect if I throw my hat into the ring for a future anthology editing role. Lowther’s advice about being honest about your priorities makes sense, and I’ll have to consider whether I can dedicate the time and effort to editing without resenting the impact on my own writing.

If you, too, are on the fence, consider Nina Munteanu’s reflection on the anthology editing process. As she explains it, “Watching the anthology emerge through the slow collection of many outside sources of individual creativity, style and message is akin to watching the birth of a galaxy full of stars—gathered and orchestrated by you but so much more than the sum of its parts—comprising many singular notes of a symphony that together create something wondrous and beautiful.”

How can you say no to that?

Why Fictionalize Memoir?

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

Today’s post is by writer and educator Cecile Popp.

My Grossmama’s annual visits throughout my childhood figure prominently in our family albums and in my memory. But while the photographs attest to the frequency of her trips east from Vancouver, my memory stubbornly insists on blending all her visits into one: we are sitting around the dining room table. It might be breakfast, it could be summer. And although I know that only two or three of my father’s five sisters ever managed to visit at the same time, living as they did in different countries and cities, in my memory they are all there.

They linger for what seems like hours, long after my mother and brothers have left the table. And I stay, transfixed by their animated conversation, punctuated by laughter that only subsides when they can no longer breathe, bosoms heaving and tears streaming.

My Grossmama’s life spanned the 20th century and four continents, and was disrupted repeatedly by revolution and war. I have long wanted to write about my family’s history of exile and migration, but I knew early on I didn’t want to turn my grandmother’s story into a sweeping historical drama. Rather, I’m interested in the effects on subsequent generations, most notably mine. The stories I grew up with, and the meaning I parsed from them, have informed how I live my life. But what happens when my memories, formed when I was eight, ten, thirteen, differ from those of the adults at the table? Which takes precedence—fact checking their stories, or interpreting my memory of them?

I am drawn to family histories that intersect with 20th-century events. Call it craft research. Recently, though, three such books challenged me with their ambiguous relationship to fact. If I were to arrange fiction and nonfiction on opposite ends of a spectrum, would memoir be in the middle? Can its position shift, sliding closer to one end or the other?

Example 1: Anne Berest’s The Postcard

Anne Berest’s The Postcard is carefully researched and highly personal, centering the author as first person narrator in several parts of the book. Berest herself has said, “There is not a single sentence in these passages that is invented.” Yet the original French edition is subtitled un romain vrai, or a true novel. The copyright page of the English version clearly states that historical events, real people, and places are used fictitiously. So why is Berest calling her memoir a novel? Why present something true and historical as fiction?

Certainly, Berest had options: many memoirists include a disclaimer stating that some names and distinguishing details have been changed. Indeed, Berest explains in an NPR interview that she did exactly this for anyone who was depicted negatively, so as to protect their grandchildren. Is it ultimately just a question of semantics, then? After all, Berest hasn’t departed from her family’s history, hasn’t written a novel “inspired” by true events.

Or perhaps Berest didn’t feel comfortable calling The Postcard a memoir because some parts of the narrative shift away from the author’s discovery and self-reflection and place the reader in-scene with the author’s ancestors. Berest’s great-grandparents are introduced as young newlyweds in Moscow in 1919, and the narrative stays with them until the couple and two of their children are arrested and taken to Auschwitz, where they were killed in 1942. Later, that narrative arc is picked up and the reader follows the surviving daughter, Berest’s grandmother, through the years of Nazi occupation. Is this where the memoir ends and the novel begins? Did Berest take creative liberties to flesh out these scenes? And what does all this mean for me and my decision to call my book about my grandmother a memoir?

Example 2: Claire Messud’s This Strange Eventful History

Claire Messud’s 2024 novel This Strange Eventful History is based on her family’s Pied-Noir history, although readers have no reason to doubt its fictitiousness. It reads like an epic family history, spanning seven decades and three generations. Told in the third person from the point of view of different characters, Messud has removed herself entirely from the story; the first-person narration is from a granddaughter. But the stories so closely resemble the author’s family history—the characters even carry the names of the author’s grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts—that I have to ask why she fictionalized their stories.

Messud has likened herself to a safecracker, whose job it is to tell the story and not get in the way. In a revealing article in The Guardian, she suggests that we write to “bear witness to lives now gone, lives that were never of themselves dramatic or, in society’s terms, important, but that, in their flaws, contradictions, joys and disappointments, were meaningful.” One could therefore argue that Messud’s story was best served by packaging it as a novel, that she could not have “given her family’s treasured memories a new life” in memoir form (source). Ultimately, Messud’s decision stems from the desire to do her family’s stories justice; and the more these stories resonate with readers, the more validating.

But since I do know that Messud’s novel is based on her grandfather’s memoir, I cannot simply enjoy the book as fiction. Indeed, it is this “ambiguous relationship to reality,” according to Julia M. Klein, that makes Messud’s book so compelling. There is a tension, a mystery, where the reader wonders how much is true. This enhances the book. I can only conclude that it is enough for Messud—or any writer—to feel seen, and that for some stories, especially if they are sweeping family histories, fictionalizing is the best way to accomplish this.

How much will I need to embellish or depart from fact, filling in the blanks, to tell my family’s stories in a compelling way? And will I also feel compelled to call my book fiction, or a “true novel”?

Example 3: Vinh Nguyen’s The Migrant Rain Falls in Reverse

Vinh Nguyen’s decision to include speculative chapters in his memoir The Migrant Rain Falls in Reverse—and still call it memoir—balances out my investigation into the question of why fictionalize. If anyone could have called their memoir fiction, it would be Nguyen. And yet his (true) story is made all the more powerful by the chapters that are fictionalized. By playing with truth, fact and memory, he brings to the forefront not only the problem these present in memoir, but more importantly the trauma and impact of the Vietnam War. “Those who have been through war know that war scrambles our stories and timeline … To make sense of what happened to my father and to my family, I would need to bend memory, stretch facts, conjure desire.” His book’s form matches its contents, its message, the writer’s lived experience.

It is that phrase, conjure desire, which I find the most striking. Unlike Berest and Messud, Nguyen’s decision to invent a history for his father, indeed a hypothetical history and subsequent present day for himself and his mother, is not about the reader but rather for himself. And he doesn’t stop there. At the beginning of the book, Nguyen touches on why write memoir at all: “to make his [father’s] fall from this life acquire some significance beyond another senseless refugee death, a nameless person disappearing from history.”

“Magical thinking” is a phrase Nguyen mentions several times in his book, referencing Joan Didion’s memoir about the year following her husband’s death. Through this memoir, particularly the invented parts, Nguyen lives through an alternative reality, the life he wishes he could have had with and for his father. And—spoiler alert—by the end of the book he has worked through this need and achieves closure.

Still, by writing the book he needed to write, and being transparent about his departures from fact, Nguyen has created a powerful reader experience.

Final thoughts

A history of my Grossmama’s life, especially if written to inform readers of a geopolitical movement and its subsequent Baltic German diaspora, would understandably have little room for her granddaughter’s personal stories and interpretations. Swing the pendulum in the opposite direction and write autofiction, and I could freely embellish to serve the story. As Sarah Twombly so succinctly put it, writing in Craft, “Unburdened by facts, you are beholden only to the emotional truth of your story.” But a memoir of how those events affect me today in 21st-century Canada should draw on both the emotional and historical truth of my family’s stories. Berest, Messud and Nguyen have all done both, albeit with varying degrees of fictionalization. As if they each asked themselves what would serve their reader and their story; and then proceeded to write their respective books.

Like Messud, I wish to bear witness and breathe new life into my family’s stories. Like Berest, I feel compelled to counterbalance the past with my own experience, especially as I learn more about our history as an adult. And, inspired by Nguyen, I may (transparently) experiment with speculation.

New agent at Neighborhood Literary

Aashna Avachat has joined as an agent, building a list of children’s and adult fiction in various genres and select nonfiction.

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Links of Interest: August 27, 2025

The latest in trends, marketing and promotion, and culture & politics.

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Anthropic settles class-action suit

Anthropic has decided to settle out of court. Everyone involved has so far declined to comment, and terms have yet to be disclosed.

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Amazon now allows Kindle-exclusive authors to distribute their ebooks to libraries

A screenshot on social media shows Amazon customer service confirming that distribution to public libraries is okay.

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New imprint at Simon & Schuster, led by former CEO

Simon & Schuster’s CEO Jonathan Karp is stepping down to run his own imprint, Simon Six, as soon as a replacement can be found.

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Developing Antagonism in Your Story

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Today’s post is by writer, editor, and book coach Erin Halden.

Conflict is the key to a successful story. Without it, all you have is a collection of things that are happening to your protagonist, none of which carry the power to force your character to undergo change and bring your story to a satisfying resolution.

And yet lack of conflict, or lack of clarity on conflict, is one of the most common problems I see as a developmental editor and book coach. Writers aren’t sure what’s getting in their character’s way, or why it matters. They may have a vague idea of who the antagonist is, but they haven’t stepped into their shoes to understand what drives them. Or built friction into their scenes.

A successful story needs layers of antagonism to create and sustain conflict on the page, whether you’re writing epic fantasy or realistic fiction. By giving your protagonist challenges to overcome, choices to make, and setbacks to bounce back from, you give your readers a reason to keep turning pages.

More than the main antagonist

When writers hear “antagonism,” their minds often go to characters. And, yes, characters can be antagonists—these are your Saurons and Emperor Palpatines, your bullies and queen bees, your serial killers and long-time bitter rivals. The guy who got stole your promotion … or your girlfriend.

But antagonism is much more than that. It’s anything that gets your protagonist’s way as they try to achieve their story goal. Enemies, forces of nature, the ticking bomb that will explode in two minutes if your protagonist can’t defuse it in time—it all brings tension and conflict to the page.

The good news is, because there are different types of antagonism operating at both the story and scene level, there are many opportunities to layer conflict into your story that you might not even be considering.

So where do you start?

It can be useful to picture antagonism as a hierarchy, starting at the top with the main source of story-level antagonism and then stepping down the ladder to scene-level antagonism. This can help you differentiate, and develop, layers of antagonism in your story.

The Mastermind Antagonist

At the top of the antagonism hierarchy sits the Mastermind Antagonist. Masterminds are the ones with the capital-P Plan to gain or maintain power. The protagonist is crashing into this Plan and, from the Mastermind’s perspective, gumming it up.

The Mastermind has the most to gain—and therefore the most to lose—if their Plan goes awry and will do anything to achieve their goal, no matter the cost. The protagonist is fighting to maintain their agency in the face of the Mastermind’s drive for control. This power struggle—what the Mastermind wants versus what the protagonist wants—is the main source of story-level conflict. One well-known Mastermind is President Snow of The Hunger Games, whose goal of maintaining his iron grip on the Districts is in direct conflict with Katniss’s desire to break free of his control.

Masterminds aren’t only for speculative fiction. Contemporary stories need them, too. They can be the bully at school, thwarting the protagonist’s goal of belonging. Or a bad boss, blocking the protagonist’s climb up the corporate ladder. They can be a well-meaning family member perpetuating a family expectation, like pressuring your protagonist to go to medical school instead of art school.

Masterminds don’t have to be characters. They can be social or cultural expectations and stereotypes. In Piecing Me Together, by Renée Watson, Jade has grown up in a poor, black neighborhood and is tired of those things defining her as someone to fix. She uses art to find her own voice and push back against this limiting stereotype.

Whether they are characters or external social and cultural expectations, Masterminds and the power struggle they bring to the page provide the energy that powers your story.

But they’re often off-stage, which means they need helpers.

Henchmen Antagonists

A step down in the hierarchy, Henchmen Antagonists are characters who have bought into the Mastermind’s Plan and are helping to execute it—and to stop the protagonist from messing with it.

Henchmen are the antagonists your protagonist will most often encounter. Depending on their role, they can operate at a story level or at a scene-to-scene level as they interact with the protagonist. In the original Star Wars movies, Darth Vader is the ultimate Henchman, executing Emperor Palpatine’s Plan for universal domination.

But henchmen don’t have to be evil. In Watson’s Piecing Me Together, the well-meaning teachers and mentors trying to help Jade are unwitting Henchmen, unintentionally reinforcing the cultural stereotype defining Jade as someone to fix.

Henchmen play an important role in getting conflict on the page. They have their own set of motivations and stakes that you can mine to build antagonism into your story.

Allies with a Challenge

Sometimes your protagonist’s allies and mentors will step into the role of antagonist at a crucial moment in the story. Another rung down on the hierarchy, these Allies with a Challenge push back on the protagonist when they don’t agree with them, or they don’t think they’re ready for something, or they don’t think they’ve thought things through.

This is an important type of antagonism, as the protagonist is more likely to listen to allies and mentors, and the challenge they are posing to the protagonist at this moment is likely to push the protagonist to rethink things, to grow and to change, and to gain what they need to succeed.

Think Obi Wan Kenobi challenging Luke’s desire for revenge. His warnings that that will put him on the same path as Darth Vader. His moments of antagonism push Luke along his internal arc of change.

In The Sun Is Also A Star, by Nicola Yoon, main characters Daniel and Natasha challenge each other to see things from the other person’s point of view, challenging their assumptions about themselves and their worldview—even as they are falling in love with each other on the streets of New York City.

By challenging the protagonist to be a better version of themselves, these Allies help to push the protagonist to their moment of change.

Antagonistic forces

At the bottom of the hierarchy, these are the problems the protagonist may run into on the adventure of the story. It’s the heavy traffic they hit on their way to the big game. Or the thunderstorm that knocks out the power, preventing the protagonist from charging their dead smartphone. Or the tree that falls on their car, forcing the protagonist to stay at that creepy cabin in the woods.

These scene-to-scene antagonistic forces create friction, giving your protagonist problems to solve, choices to make, barriers to overcome.

Getting antagonism on the page

Just as you would dive into your protagonist, sussing out their goals and motivations and backstories, you need dive deep into your story’s sources of antagonism. 

Start at the top of the hierarchy. Who is your Mastermind? What do they want, and why? What are they willing to sacrifice? What’s at stake for them? What is their Plan, and how is the protagonist messing it up? Or what existing stereotypes and barriers is your protagonist crashing into? This is your story-level power struggle.Work your way down through the hierarchy. Get clear on who your Henchmen are, and what is at stake for them. Look at your protagonist’s allies and ask if they are challenging the protagonist to be a better version of themselves at key moments in the story. Look at your scenes. Are there antagonistic forces providing scene-to-scene friction, making the journey harder for your protagonist?

The more clearly you develop and articulate antagonism in your story, the more your protagonist will shine. Readers will know exactly what they’re up against, what the stakes are, and why it all matters.

The Activist Memoir: How to Write for Change

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Today’s post is by editor and book coach Stephanie Mitchell.

Is it too much to hope that your memoir can have a concrete impact on the world? I think not—thanks to a particular miracle of the human brain.

Every memoir is about something deeper and more universal than its plot or hook—Marion Roach Smith terms this the argument, something the writer wants the reader to come to understand through reading the book.

While many memoirs’ arguments are personal, others are social or political. Let’s call books with a broader social or political argument activist memoirs. I don’t necessarily mean that these are memoirs about lives in activism—rather that the books themselves are political or social acts, with a message for the reader that might impact society.

Sometimes a memoir’s activist bent is explicit. Bryan Stevenson wants readers of Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption to support advocacy for equal justice initiatives and against the death penalty and mass incarceration. With The Red Pencil: Convictions from Experience in Education, Theodore R. Sizer wants to change the conversation about public education. Books like these announce themselves as having a social agenda. You needn’t read beyond the logline to recognize it; sometimes you needn’t read beyond the title.

Other activist memoirs wrap their arguments a little more deeply in plot. Javier Zamora certainly has a message in Solito, his memoir about his experiences crossing the southern border of the United States as a child—he wants compassion and sympathy for people who have made that journey, an understanding of what they have gone through to reach American soil. But he doesn’t foreground that argument. He foregrounds his story and lets readers draw their own conclusions.

The power of memoir to convince us of an argument stems from the way good writing can harness our empathy—a phenomenon rooted in neuroscience.

We have cells in our brains called mirror neurons. The job of the mirror neuron is to observe what someone else is doing, to understand how to do it, and to understand what the purpose of the action is. This is how we learn by watching: as babies, we see a parent open a jar by twisting the lid, our mirror neurons fire up, and we understand that by twisting a lid, we too can open a jar. We listen to people speaking, the mirror neurons in our brains activate as though we too are speaking, and we begin to learn how to produce those same sounds. At the same time, we learn to interpret the nonverbal elements of speech—gesture, expression, tone. All thanks to mirror neurons.

Scientists also believe that mirror neurons are a big part of how we experience empathy. When we see someone else experience an emotion, part of our brains also experiences that emotion. This mirroring process is fundamental to human nature. It’s one of the essential building blocks of society.

It is also why we, as a species, gravitate so strongly to story. A good story, well told, activates those same neurons. When we listen to a story, watch a film, or read a book, we feel what the characters are feeling. This is why a loss in a book can make us cry, why a love scene acts on our bodies, why we feel such satisfaction when a protagonist gets a well-deserved happy ending. And it’s why reading about an injustice can fire us up, enrage us, inspire us to action.

Herein lies the power of memoir. As a memoir writer, you can make your readers feel what you felt when the events of your book happened to you. You can make them understand the choices you made. And if you’re writing a memoir with an activist bent, you can inspire your readers into action, or at least into supporting your cause. After all, your readers expect that what you’re showing them is all true. These are real issues in the world, with real consequences, and you’re a real person bringing them along through a real experience of those consequences.

Ah, but how? What sorts of scenes, reflections, or discussions provoke the mirror neurons into activity?

The ancient Greeks thought that there were three ways to convince someone of something: through logos, or logic; through ethos, or authority; and through pathos, or emotion. The Greeks, naturally, thought of logos as the highest form of persuasion. Breaking down your argument logically was superior to calling upon your audience to believe you because of your qualifications or simply working on their emotions.

But that’s not what activates the mirror neurons and the empathy circuits. That’s not what reaches inside a person and flips a switch for motivation. You can’t trigger your readers to mirror your feelings by telling them what to think or feel, nor by persuasive argument—only by showing them what you thought or felt.

Jen Sookfong Lee describes this phenomenon in her memoir Superfan: How Pop Culture Broke My Heart this way:

As a writer who has written about abuse and trauma for most of my career, I know that the most effective way to help people understand a concept, an ideology even, that marginalizes, oppresses, and dehumanizes a group of people is to say, “This is what happened to me.” It is this individual spectacle, in all its visceral, fleshy detail, that pierces the heart and brain and makes readers feel our pain as we have felt it, as we feel it again while we are remembering and writing about it.

Compare these two versions of the same moment from a nonexistent memoir:

I looked at the haggard, exhausted men and women in the boat and knew: anyone with an ounce of compassion had to be on their side.

Versus:

I looked at the men and women in the boat. Their faces were lined with grime and exhaustion, their eyes searching mine—for some sign, I assumed, of how I was going to treat them. I tried to soften my expression, to open my stance. Of course I was going to welcome them. Of course I was.

One of these versions works on the mind; the other works on the brain on a deeper level, reaching for the mirror neurons. There are two things to notice here.

The narrator in the second version is having an experience: they are seeing something specific and it is affecting them in a specific way, changing how they are holding their body. Our brains picture that softening, that opening, and automatically fire up as though our bodies are doing the same.Both versions end in a thought, but only the thought in the second version is personal to the narrator—they are thinking about what they themselves are going to do, not thinking about what people in general should do. The mirror neurons respond to personal experience, not to logical conclusions. Showing your thoughts and feelings—keeping them internal, focused on your own experience—is a much more reliable way to make those thoughts and feelings contagious than telegraphing your conclusions is.

Has this all been yet another way of saying to show more than you tell? Maybe so. But in memoir, you have more space for telling than you have in some other genres. You have space for reflection, for self-observation, even for straight-up instructing your readers what to take from a moment. And when you’re writing a memoir with a purpose—that is, a purpose beyond sharing your experience and engrossing your readers—choosing when to summarize your point and when to show it, from as deeply within your point of view as possible, can be the difference between your readers understanding what you mean and feeling what you mean.

And that can be the difference between your book being a subject of discussion and being a force for change.

Look through your book for the moments that should hit the readers hardest—the moments that really make your point. Rewrite those scenes with as much showing and as little telling as you can. You can reflect and even explain yourself elsewhere. Those moments, the change-making moments, call for showing and inner, personal experience. Show why you think the things you think.

Feelings lead to thoughts. Thoughts lead to action. If you want to activate your readers, start by making them feel.

What Authors Need to Know about the Return of Findaway as INaudio

As of August 1, Findaway has been carved off from Spotify and is independent once again, this time under the name INaudio.

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