Writing Outside the Box - Writing Memoir
Scroll to the end of the blog to watch the video tutorial for this session or read on for a full transcript of the workshop.
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Introduction:
When it comes to writing our memories of the past it can be difficult to know where to begin. So many people and stories weave through our own story, choosing what to include and what to leave out can feel a little overwhelming. In this session we’ll explore how something as simple as an everyday object can be used to give shape, structure and colour to how we narrate our past and the stories which have made us who we are. Using an object to write memoir is also a great way of honing your observation skills. When we use description in writing, we’re essentially using words to paint a picture for our readers. All writers have to become really adept at paying close attention to the world around them if they want to create believable descriptions in their work.
Ideally you should begin this writing session by reading a poem which focuses on an object eg. a tree, a family heirloom or a food item. Anything which explores the association between an object and a memory will work well. The following poems work would be appropriate for exploring the links between memory and every day objects. “Digging” by Seamus Heaney, “Love Songs in Age” by Philip Larkin, or “The Lanyard” by Billy Collins.
Pick one of these pieces of writing. Read it aloud. Keep a notebook or page to hand and jot down any phrases, words or ideas which strike you as especially apt, interesting or confusing. Think about why these sections have grabbed your attention. Consider or discuss how the writer has described the object, how the object is associated with the past and what the object has come to symbolise.
Interactive Writing Exercises:
· Pick an object which is close at hand. Set it in front of you where you can clearly see it.
· Take a pen or pencil and roughly sketch the object. This will help you to closely observe it.
· Describe the object without actually saying what it is. You might like to imagine you’re painting a verbal picture of this object for someone who’s never encountered anything like it before. Pay careful attention to your senses. What does the object look, sound, smell, taste and feel like?
· Write down three things the object is like eg. A teapot is like a long nosed man wearing a beret. A lightbulb is like a candle cupped inside a goldfish bowl. Have fun with these similes. Let your imagination experiment with strange comparisons.
· Write down three things you associate with your object. It might be a childhood memory or a person who had a particular relationship with this object. Take a few minutes to share one of these stories if you’re working in a group or to roughly scribble down the details if you’re by yourself.
· Begin to pull all the elements of your object story together. Describe the object you’ve chosen and what it reminds you of, then tell the story of this association.
· If it helps to give your piece some structure, begin with a phrase like, every time I see a teapot etc. I am reminded of…… Although you should feel equally free to tell the story of your object in any creative way you’d like.
· When writing your object story remember to include as much specific detail as you can. Avoid clichés and think creatively when you select metaphors and words to describe your object and the story associated with it.
· Don’t forget to include the way this particular object makes you feel.
· Take around 15 – 20 minutes to write up your object story. Aim for around 300 words, (roughly one notebook page).
· Take some time to share your object stories with the group and give each other helpful encouraging feedback.
· Sharing stories associated with objects will often provoke similar memories in other people. If possible, leave plenty of time for everyone to speak.
Example:
I’ve included an example of an object piece I wrote about my late grandmother. I was asked to write a short piece of micro-fiction related to textiles. I focused in on my grandmother’s love of knitting and spent some time remembering her knitting bag with its sharp silver needles and colourful explosions of wool. I remembered the noise of her needles clicking quickly as she knitted in front of the television and the feeling of watching her gradual decline as she developed both Dementia and Arthritis and eventually had to give up knitting all together. The piece became a short, but powerfully evocative, snapshot of my grandmother where the knitting is central to the story yet also the vehicle through which I share how much she meant to me.
Gladys
Your mother’s mother was Gladys, the first syllable of which is, Glad. This sat sweetly with her face which was always smiling, always parting its lips in praise. She was born at the smarter end of the Cliftonville Road, in a red house, with a pitched roof and windows. When the Blitz descended upon Belfast, the windows came in and everyone was under the table praying. It seemed, for one long night, like the world was ending right outside her front door. She told you this for a school project, and how she was sent to Bangor for safekeeping. You have a picture of her paddling in the sea. In this picture she looks exactly like Anne Frank. Serene. Striking. Miles away, behind the eyes.
Your nana was not the sort of girl who worked in mills. She did not work at all, but married well, and stayed home playing piano and knitting. Sweaters were her thing. She knit you itchy ones for school and Girls’ Brigade, a softer yellow number for your fifth birthday. It had a horse on the front with loose strands of brown wool, knotted into a mane. It stretched with you, all the way up to Primary Six. You also recall hats, mittens and blankets for other people’s grandchildren. A cardigan, with mother-of-pearl buttons, winking through the Mohair like tiny, open eyes. Sometimes people still say to you, “your nana was a great wee knitter.”
Picture your nana in an armchair by the fire. Slippers on. Teapot stewing on the hearth. Note the click, fidget, click of needle meeting needle, the way her fingers do the looking for her, the chubby eights of double knit in pink, lemon, and palest blue, rolling across the carpet towards the door like tendrils stretching for the light. Picture her singing in time with the stitches: hymns and choruses, romantic songs by Jim Reeves. Your nana knit until her fingers turned to thumbs and it hurt to pull the yarn tightly. In the end she forgot what her fingers were for, though they still flew backwards and forwards across the bed sheets, as if she held phantom needles in her hands, as if the stale, hospital air could be knit into one last sweater.
Developed, written and presented by Jan Carson
Produced by Alan Meban
Funded by Arts Council NI
