From what I can remember about my reading life, memoirs don’t interest me a whole lot. I can think of a few recent engaging works of new journalism in which the authors are candid about their own involvement with their subjects–Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma, for example, or Rebecca Skloot’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks–but the last memoir I both read and loved was Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. That was nine years ago. So when I saw that we had to write a memoir, I wasn’t all that excited. I thought it would distract from the writing I’m actually doing in my spare time (fiction) and the research that I started yesterday and need to finish by THURSDAY.
Then we actually started the exercises. We completed a piece of snapshot writing, in which I recalled one of my daughter’s allergic reactions, and then we prospected, going back to random times in our lives and figuring out what we cared about way back when. The allergic reaction story is one I tell all the time in order to explain to people why my wife and I are so insistent that our daughter not be allowed near any milk product (long story short: a severe dairy allergy is very different from lactose intolerance. Milk can kill my daughter). The prospecting, however, unearthed some deep feelings I hadn’t thought about in a very long time. There are emotional states I went through years, even decades ago, that I have not been through since, and it was surprising to revisit them. I won’t be going into any details about this stuff on a public website (none of it’s illegal; it’s just personal), but I do think I found some interesting fodder for whatever finished product I have to turn in at the end. It won’t be fiction, but it’ll be just as much fun.
UPDATE: Okay, I did think of a few other memoir/autobiographical books worth mentioning:
Bob Dylan, Chronicles Volume One: “Bob Dylan” the troubadour is really Robert Zimmerman from Minnesota. You won’t find out much about Zimmerman here, but you’ll find out plenty of interesting tidbits about the persona he’s constructed for himself.
Johnny Cash, Cash: The Autobiography: All the basic details of Cash’s life are here, but when he talks about others, he turns seemingly useless information into great entertaining anecdotes. I love the last conversation he has with Roy Orbison, and what Cash discovers when he looks into Orbison’s casket.
Steve Martin, Born Standing Up: I haven’t read this one yet, but I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with the old Steve Martin, the one who was funny.
