The Memoir Project: A Thoroughly Non-Standardized Text for Writing & Life

How it happened is not what makes it interesting. That it happened at all—why it happened and where you go from there—is interesting.

What we want from you is your take on something, laid out a truth at a time, slowly.

“One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.”

When writing about our own animals (as well as our husbands, wives, and children) we’d be well advised to avoid any karmic-sounding sentences that make any grand conclusions. Keep it simple; let the reader make her own.

Try not to overexplain: “… I said nervously because we were just reunited after thirty-five years.” Instead, show your nervous joy by whipping off your bifocals and shoving them into your bra—if that’s what you did. If you did not, you did something else that communicated nervous joy, and you remember it, because now you’re a writer, and that’s wha

Writing is a form of packing, and you always want to be on the move, so packing light should be the ethic, no matter the length of the piece.

“But it’s a lovely sentence,” someone will whine, defending their darling when I edit it out. And that’s the problem. It may be, but understanding that writing is not about those single flourishes, and instead is about the piece as a whole, is the first step toward learning how to commit the perfect murder—a good final edit.

Instead, while writing about the hideous aspects of life, you should attempt to teach us something about the behavior of those involved, about your behavior, about all human behavior. Let us into your story by shedding light on our own dilemmas, fears, happiness, or wide-eyed wonder.

But I’m not going based on this review, because I didn’t learn anything. I’m not going to sign up—and that’s what reading is: signing up to take a walk with the writer.