How to write a memoir (and make pad thai)
In The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr says she writes memoirs because she doesn’t know how to make things up.
That’s exactly how I feel. I have a deep respect for fiction writers. I wouldn’t even know where to begin writing a novel. Perhaps this is because I’m lazy, and it’s just easier for me to tell you what happened to me, which is what you’ll find in Craving London (launch date to be announced very soon!)
And yet it was still hard. So hard. Especially because I knew that if I was going to do it, I needed to be as raw and real as possible—which is exactly the opposite of what I did in the earlier drafts. It’s scary to get naked emotionally in front of—hopefully—a multitude of readers.
So back to Mary Karr. In The Art of Memoir, she shares this most excellent summary towards the end of the book, which became my nakedness barometer as I wrote and edited Craving London:
1. Paint a physical reality that uses all the senses and exists in a time you’re writing about—a singular, fascinating place peopled with objects and characters we believe in. Should include the speaker’s body or some kinesthetic elements.
2. Tell a story that gives the reader some idea of your milieu and exploits your talent. We remember in stories, and for a writer, story is where you start.
3. Package information about your present self or back story so it has emotional conflict or scene.
All the rest are interior:
4. Set emotional stakes—why is the writer passionate about or desperate to deal with the past—the hint of an inner enemy?
5. Think, figure, wonder, guess. Show yourself weighing what’s true, your fantasies, values, schemes, and failures.
6. Change times back and forth—early on, establish the “looking back” voice, and the “being in it” voice.
7. Collude with the reader about your relationship with the truth and memory.
8. Show not so much how you suffer in long passages, but how you survive. Use humor or an interjecting adult voice to help a reader over the dark places.
9. Don’t exaggerate. Trust that what you felt is deeply valid.
10. Watch your blind spots—in revision, if not before, search for reversals. Beware of what you avoid and what you cling to.
11. (Related to all of the above) Love your characters. Ask yourself what underlay their acts and versions of the past. Sometimes I pray to see people I’m angry at or resentful of as God sees them, which heals both page and heart.
And one big fat caveat: lead with your own talent, which may cause you to ignore all I’ve recommended.
Now that I’ve copied all that, I see that once my book is out, I may need to go back and show you exactly how I used these points throughout the writing. #10 was a huge one for me. “Reversals”, for example, are when you THINK the other person was to blame for a breakup, but it was really just as much your fault… Once I carefully examined events from different angles and questioned my initial assumptions about certain people, I could see that I had often been all wrong! Thanks to Mary’s list, you’ll get the honest—and painful but necessary—story.
In the kitchen: How to make pad thai
You want to learn how to write a memoir, you read Mary Karr. How to make pad thai? You Google Chez Pim.
When I was writing my Ripe London blog between 2005-2009, food blogs were really taking off, and Chez Pim—the blog by Bangkok native Pim Techamuanvivit—was BIG. I remember sitting at the Caffè Nero in Kensington reading about Pim in the food section of the Sunday newspaper, back when people read the actual paper cover to cover. Geez, I’m feeling old. Anyway, Pim wrote a post called “Pad Thai for Beginners” that taught you how to make the real thing, the way they do in the streets of Bangkok.
And since there’s a chapter in Craving London about my three weeks in Thailand, I wanted to share Pim’s legendary recipe. She quit writing Chez Pim years ago to become a restaurateur, and she is now the executive chef of Nahm in Bangkok. But you can still find her recipe—captivating her unique personality—here.
