Those of us who feel the call to record the lives of others have to decide the best way to tell our story: first person or third?; present tense or past?; chronologically, episodically, or something else?

The options can seem endless and confusing when we consider them, yet our choices are often constrained–or dictated–by the amount of information at our disposal, our writing skills, and the breadth of our imagination. Some fortunate personal historians are blessed with an abundance of all three, and then it becomes a case of selecting a narrative approach that best capitalizes on the character and personality of the story’s subject.

I’ve been thinking about these issues recently since completing Jeannette Walls’ magnificent Half Broke Horses, a “true-life novel” about her grandmother, Lily Casey Smith, the indomitable mother of the memorable hippy-artist “mother” showcased in Wall’s blockbuster memoir The Glass Castle. Everyone I know in the memoir world has read The Glass Castle. It’s the best-selling memoir of all time for good reason, and I’m sure I’ve made Walls a little richer by the number of times I’ve recommended her book to someone struggling with the best way to write about family skeletons and other prickly people–for Walls shows us how in that wonderful book.

Half Broke Horses is a different kind of book. Walls calls her grandmother a character, and she is–a no-nonsense, resilient, courageous, brainy, gun-toting, plane-flying, horse-breaking mother of two, decades ahead of her time. As a family historian, how would you showcase a woman like this without watering her down or making her a caricature? I’m sure Walls pondered this question long and hard.

Lily died when Walls was eight, but, along with her other pursuits, Lily had been a great story teller, continually repeating detailed anecdotes about her life to her daughter, the hippy artist, who then told them to Walls. The author says she tried tracking down the truth of some of those anecdotes and, except for a few details, was never able to disprove them.

Walls had to know she was sitting on a dynamite story, but how to tell it? She could write it from her own point of view: “My fabulous grandmother told me she took flying lessons when she was thirty-nine and began working as a freelance bush pilot. When I didn’t believe her, she showed me pictures of herself sitting in the cockpit of a beat-up twin-engine, crop-duster.”

Or Walls could choose to tell it from the classic, third-person, biographer’s point of view: “When Lily was fifteen, she rode her pony, alone, 500 miles to Red Lake, Arizona, to her first teaching job, taking with her a toothbrush, change of underwear, presentable dress, a comb, canteen, bedroll, and a pearl-handled six-shooter.”

These would have been traditional, acceptable approaches to writing a family history narrative. But Walls, whose mother said was born with her grandmother’s gumption, decided on a different approach. In the Author’s Note at the end of the book, Walls explains that she ”saw the book more in the vein of an oral history…and undertaken with the storyteller’s traditional liberties.”

Thinking oral history, Walls fashioned a first-person narrative with the grandmother telling the story in her own voice. Walls says, “I wanted to capture Lily’s distinctive voice, which I clearly recall.” She added, “…since I don’t have the words from Lily herself, and since I have also drawn on my imagination to fill in details that are hazy or missing–and I’ve changed a few names to protect people’s privacy–the only honest thing to do is call the book a novel.”

It reads like a legitimate oral history, though. Walls’ memory and substantial storytelling skills created an unforgettable narrative voice that allows Lily Smith to be Lily Smith, with all her no-nonsense, bossy charm. All the way through Half Broke Horses, I kept thinking how short-changed I would have been had Walls chosen a more traditional approach. Listen to Lily’s voice:

“I expected those Brooklyn gals to be tough and smart, and maybe even practicing socialists, but instead they were all ninnies who wore too much makeup and kept complaining about the Arizona heat, the hearse’s uncomfortable buggy seats, and the fact that there was no place in the entire state to get a good egg cream. They had these thick Brooklyn accents, and I had to fight the temptation to correct their atrocious pronunciation.”

Can you imagine the work and creativity required to narrate a life story with a voice like this, staying true to its character to the end?

In case you haven’t guessed, I recommend this book. Add it to your Christmas list. You’ll love Lily Smith, you’ll be inspired by her story, and you’ll be able to assess for yourself the freedom and rewards of a fictionalized approach to family history.

Last week I gave presentations at a week-long adult education conference sponsored by Brigham Young University, in Provo, Utah. Held annually the third week of August since 1922, Campus Education Week attracts around 20,000 attendees from all over the world, though primarily from the Western United States. It’s an incredible undertaking for the event planners, with over a thousand classes offered on an array of topics.

I taught a three-hour class on the first day of the conference focused on family history writing, then partnered with my husband to present one-hour presentations on personal history writing the four remaining days of the event.

This is my eighth year teaching at Education Week. I always come away from the experience touched and inspired by the many wonderful people I’ve met who are fired with a sense of mission to write their personal and family stories. I regret that I can’t spend more time with them, for  I understand the magnitude of the task they’ve set for themselves and know the days, months, and years ahead will be fraught with all the questions, frustrations, and self-doubt that go with the territory.

As I talked with people before and after my classes, I was reminded of the universal nature of the concerns we all face when we contemplate writing our stories:

• Are our lives worth writing about? Will anyone read our stories and find them interesting? (Yes, and yes…more than you’ll ever realize.)
• Do I have the ability to write an interesting story? (Yes. Everyone’s life is interesting. Just tell your story in your voice. You want to sound like yourself. Remember to make it personal. Share your thoughts and feelings. Let readers know how events affected you. Don’t just write what you DID; explain who you ARE.)
• How do I handle all the sensitive, sometimes dark, issues in my life? How much should I tell? (Unfortunately, there’s no easy answer to this question, but we all have to grapple with this problem and find a solution we can live with. Your solution will depend on balancing a variety of competing concerns: your purpose for writing, the relevance of your sensitive issues to your life, your audience/readers, your commitment to the truth, and your tone. I think tone is key. You can say the same thing in different ways. A tone of compassion, fairness, and forgiveness allows you more room to tell your truth with less offense. This may seem like a simplistic answer, but your decision will come down to striking a balance between these factors.)

When I finished teaching my last class on Friday afternoon, I felt a bit like my parents must have felt when they dropped me off at BYU as a college freshman years ago. As they drove away in their yellow Chevrolet Impala from the Helaman Halls dorms where they left me, I’m sure it wasn’t long before one of them said, “Well, we’ve done what we could. She’s on her own now.”

It was true…to an extent. But I had classes and books and mentors to inspire and teach me how to proceed on my own. It’s my hope that those of you who attend my conference presentations will seek out writing classes at your community college or adult education center to keep you motivated to write. If you can’t find a class, start a writing group with other like-minded people. Writing is such a solitary pursuit, it’s vital that you find some way to keep yourself motivated. Finally, read published memoirs to learn how other people have written about their lives. I’ve posted a list of excellent memoirs in the “Reading Resources” section of this blog.

Good luck to all of you…and keep plugging!

It’s summer time—a time for family vacations. Most of us have memories of relaxing and entertaining excursions with our families when we were growing up. When families get together for holidays and reunions, it seems like someone always brings up a vacation story. Your sister might say, “Remember the time Mom dropped the camera in the river?” Another chimes in with, “I’ll never forget those long trips across the desert jammed in the backseat of the car with NO AIR CONDITIONING.” Someone else says, “Remember reading those Burma Shave billboards?” Everyone laughs. They remember.

Don’t let those entertaining and unforgettable stories become forgotten. Commit them to paper, so your descendants will know what family vacations were like in your era. Vacations reveal a lot about families. A vacation story may capture the essence of your family better than pages of description. It may reveal a side of your parents (relaxed, and with their hair down?) you didn’t typically see in your day-to-day interactions with them.

My student Carolyn Adamson splendidly captures the interests and personalities of her family with an entertaining story about their decades-long, love-hate relationship with a famous restaurant chain. And, no, it’s not McDonalds.

Waffling About: A Family Saga
by Carolyn Wood Adamson

With a huge sigh, we dragged our bottoms onto the stools at the counter there in Marietta: my three kids and I, plus sister Sally, who had met us at Hartsfield International Airport at the unseemly hour of 5:15 am.  She was the only sprightly one of the bunch, and understandably so: she hadn’t flown all night from LAX. Why did I think taking this red-eye to visit Grandmother in Georgia was such a good idea, especially with a layover in the smoke-choked Las Vegas airport?  So it saved a few dollars, so what! I thought, as I glanced down the counter.

“I don’t want anything!” Greg said, yawning; “My tummy hurts!” whined Elise; “ It’s hot and sticky!” complained Rachel. Stifling! The suffocating heat of a summer morning in Georgia cannot be matched, unless, of course, it’s a summer morning in St. Louis.

“What’s wrong with the windows?” Rachel continued. We all spun around on our stools to see they were steamed opaque, separated by random rivulets of moisture, allowing but a slivered view of the asphalt parking lot. Add to that a faltering air conditioner plus the combined odors of stale cigarette smoke, fry-basket grease, and a griddle that needed scraping down, and you too would have had thoughts about heading for that parking lot. Never again! Never another red-eye–and definitely never another Waffle House, no matter what!

~    ~    ~

True to my word, I didn’t darken a door of their multi-state chain from that June Georgia morning in 1970 for 35 years–no matter how conveniently “America’s Place To Eat” popped up during various travels. “Present in 34 states–1,350 locations and counting. . .” boasts an old brochure that I saved–who knows why. Fast forward to 2005. It was April. Now there’s nothing more lovely than a crisp, springtime morning in St. Louis, lush with blooming spirea and lilacs, unless of course, it’s a springtime morning in Atlanta when the dogwood blooms.

But there we were in St. Louis–extended family gathered for breakfast near Lambert Field. We had come from afar to rendezvous before the drive 150 miles to Charleston, Illinois, to attend Uncle Ralph’s memorial service. This time there were six of us: Sally and “her Steve,” plus son Morgan; “my Steve” and I, plus daughter Rachel.

“Do you remember that hideous breakfast we had in Marietta when I was a little girl?” began Rachel.  And we were off, both grimacing and chuckling at the memory. “And look at those Missouri rednecks,” she continued, tilting her head toward four men in work clothes in the booth adjoining ours.

“Whadda ya mean?” Suddenly, I felt defensive, back on my home turf. “We were taught there’s nothing wrong with an honest day’s work,” I added, killing the light-hearted atmosphere. Geez, we’ve ruined them, I thought. We should have never left Missouri to raise kids in California with its superficial values of sun, surf, and glamour.

As silence hung midair, the head waitress at the counter yelled, “What’ll it be, hon?” to a laborer who had slid onto a stool, squinting at the menu as he pushed back his grimy Cardinals cap. “Remember, hon, there’s more than 3,538,944 ways to enjoy our hash browns,” she teased. We all laughed at her sassy delivery and outrageous statistics.  Shortly, she bellowed above the din, “Make it a large–smothered, covered, chunked, and capped.” Consulting our menus, we figured out he’d ordered his hash browns with onions, cheese, ham, and mushrooms.

“Now see,” giggled Sally, siding with me, “there’s a working man with taste–he even ordered mushrooms.” Just then our server, a middle-aged gal like the head waitress–both with “big hair”–slapped down our plates. As I drooled over grits swimming in so much real butter they’d turned golden, I was suddenly home. I forgave that intolerable atmosphere in Marietta all those years back and wondered when and where my next chance to enjoy this fare might come along.

~   ~   ~

My wish was granted just two years later as eight of us hopped onto stools, filling the entire counter in St. Charles (location #1138).  It was an unusually temperate Missouri June morning, and all was right with the world. After all, the house I lived in from fourth through eleventh grade–the one Sally was brought home to as a newborn–stood just two doors away there on South Fifth Street! Her memories and mine tumbled over one another, tangling as we raced to share stories of our childhood in the neighborhood. I was filled with sentiment, pausing to appreciate that Steve and I were barely half way through our twenty-one day genealogical tour of Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and Kentucky. We had already celebrated dear Aunt Annie’s life, traveled in claustrophobic trams to the top of St. Louis’ famed arch, and visited six of scheduled eleven cemeteries, including the graves of my Peterson great-great-great- grandparents in Philo, Illinois.

Grandson Andrew brought us back to reality with his order: “Give me the pecan double waffle and a side of three eggs over easy–no grits!” I realized then we’d divided along grits lines: the lovers and the haters. Appropriate, I mused, remembering that Missouri was a border state.

“What a great roots trip so far,” proclaimed Elise. “I can hardly wait to see the Daniel Boone House. Dad, we’re descended from his sister, Hannah, right?”

“And who’ll ever forget the two-story outhouse yesterday in Gays?” chortled Greg and son Thomas in sync as we all collapsed in laughter. Though our group was divided: the pro grits vs. the anti-grits, we were one bunch of giddy, satisfied diners as we shoved off for Boone’s place down the road in Defiance, Missouri.

~    ~    ~

Barely a week later, we dispatched our clan to their respective home states, leaving Steve and me alone to roam through Kentucky, beginning with a visit to my college roommate in Lexington. Early the next morning, we sneaked away from Beth’s for a research day at Louisville’s Filson Historical Society Library. You guessed it:  there at Exit 35 from I-64W, another W-A-F-F-L-E  H-O-U-S-E (location #1530) beamed at us, its “Good Food Fast” slogan triggering our salivary glands. Where else could we pull off breakfast for two for only $8.90 including “classic blend coffee”? And I could have my grits, and Steve his raisin toast and hash browns.

Next morning, we repeated our routine in Versailles, Kentucky (location #1558), as we drove toward LaGrange to locate the grave of Dr. Samuel M. Osbourne, my paternal great-great-grandfather. Having had a fabulous trip with thrilling family discoveries, we did not want to face tomorrow, our last day. But that we did.  Heading from Lexington for our plane out of Indianapolis, there at Exit 29 from I- 65 N, we celebrated our final breakfast (location #512).  Three in a row.  As the waitress approached, “Our usual?” I asked, smiling at Steve.

“Naw, I’m gonna live it up!”  He grinned at me, snatched up the menu, and quickly made his choice.  “This time I’m having my hash browns scattered on the grill with onions, cheese, ham, Bert’s chili, tomatoes, Jalapeno peppers, and mushrooms!”

We laughed as our waitress, reminding us of the big-hair ones back in St. Louis, barked our order: “Two coffees, two All-Star Specials, and a TRIPLE ‘SCATTERED ALL THE WAY!’”

I recently wrote a post about the importance of writing about the religious culture in your home if it was integral to your upbringing. I included a wonderful story from Jeanne Fobes  as an example of one approach to the topic. You can find it here.

I’ve posted below a story written by my student Carolee Lavarini about growing up Catholic. The story was well received when she read it to her classmates at one of our summer writing workshops. Notice how well her use of scene brings this story to life. Had she merely summarized what happened, the event she describes wouldn’t have had as much punch–or humor. But Carolee re-creates the incident, adding dialogue and actions, giving us a “blow-by-blow view” of what happened. Enjoy!

The Mermaid
by Carolee Lavarini

My older sister Linda and her boyfriend Johnny wanted to get married.  It was 1957, and they had just graduated from high school. One night Johnny came to our house to ask Daddy for her hand in marriage. I was standing in the hallway, listening through the heater, and I heard him say, “We want to get married, Sir. I’ll take good care of your daughter.”

It was quiet enough to hear Johnny shuffling his feet back and forth. Finally, Daddy said, “If her mother agrees and Linda wants to marry you, then my answer is yes.”

Soon they were all making plans. I was busy in my senior year at high school, staying as far away as possible. The wedding plans were moving along on schedule, when the evening arrived for the priest to come over and meet the future bride’s family.

Daddy was excited that a priest was coming to our house. Mama had been cleaning house non-stop all week. My little sister, Sammie, and I were to walk in the front door and look over the living room with an eye for anything that didn’t look perfect for the priest to see. We did our job and Mama changed a few things around.

I was just pointing out the plaster mermaid cigarette holder that was on the top of the television set when the doorbell rang. One of my uncles had won it at a carnival and gave it to Daddy as a joke. It was topless with long hair partially covering her breasts. About a dozen cigarettes stood up in holes along the back, like a fence.

It had always been a sore spot between my mom and dad. Mama was embarrassed by it and kept moving it to a less conspicuous place. Daddy liked it and kept putting it back on the TV set. He kept his cigarettes in it, and laughed whenever he took a cigarette off the so-called fence.

When Linda answered the door to let the priest in, I jumped in front of the television set to block the mermaid. She introduced Father Joseph to Mama and Daddy, completely ignoring Sammie and me. After Mama introduced us, everyone sat down but me. I stood guard in front of the mermaid.

I was drifting into my usual daydream mode, when I noticed Daddy jerk up very straight and tall. He jumped up off the sofa, getting so close to Father Joseph that Daddy had to lean back to look up to him. “What did you say?” he yelled at the priest. There was no backing down for my dad. Size meant nothing to him.

Oh noooo, I thought, what happened? We’re all going to go to hell….. I know it, I know it…

Father Joseph said, “You heard me. I’m sorry. These are the rules of God. Not my rules, Mr. Lavarini. If you didn’t get married in the Catholic Church, then you are not legally married in the eyes of God.” He backed up a step as Daddy stepped forward again.

“It can all be taken care of. You just need to get married in the church and then we can go forward with Linda and Johnny’s wedding. However, the entire family has to go to classes to study the rules of the church. Your children will have to be re-baptized, as well as you and your wife.” He looked down at his feet, nervously shifting his weight back and forth, side to side.

Dropping his voice, he leaned in toward my dad, almost whispering, “You must understand sir, your children are bastards in the eyes of God. You and your wife were not married in the Church when the children were conceived. This cannot be ignored. They are born out of sin…..”

Daddy lunged forward, grabbing Father Joseph by the arm, strongly directing him to the front door. “Out! Get the hell out of my house! You can’t come in my home and tell me we aren’t married, that my children are bastards. Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in my house, telling me we’re sinners….” Daddy yelled, while pushing Father Joseph toward the door. They got in the entry way and Daddy tried to pull the door open but it kept hitting the priest’s foot and bouncing back.

Mama hurried to Daddy and put her hand on his arm. “Okay, Sam, just back up and give him room to get out. Just come back in and sit down. Let it go, Sam.” Mama’s face was all red. She wouldn’t look at us kids.

Father Joseph said to Linda and Johnny, “If you don’t marry in the church, your marriage will not be true.” He raised his voice. “You’ll live in sin, just like your parents. It will never be a real marriage,” he yelled.

Daddy slammed the door in his face. Mama paced back and forth, shaking her head. Linda started crying and yelling while Johnny tried to calm her down. I was terrified that God would strike us all down, but refused to leave my post in front of the mermaid, just in case the priest came back. Sammie got the giggles and ran out of the room.

Two months later, Linda and Johnny were married in a chapel. The reception was at our house with a lot of food, presents, relatives and neighbors. Not one word was mentioned about the Catholic Church.

A year later they were separated. Then Linda discovered she was pregnant. They went back together, until after the baby was born and she had time to get pregnant again.

My mother and father were both pulling their hair out.

One afternoon Mama phoned me at work. “They’re getting divorced,” she cried.

Mama kept saying their marriage was doomed from the start and Daddy blamed it all on Father Joseph. Then, they both blamed it on the plaster mermaid, and stuck to their story.

I never saw the mermaid again. No one ever admitted getting rid of it. Linda just sneered if I brought it up. Daddy wouldn’t talk about it without cussing it. Grandma said the mermaid was jinxed and needed to be destroyed if anyone ever found it. If you asked Mama about the mermaid, she’d say, “What mermaid?”

When I grew up, family vacations meant going on what we called a “fishing trip.” They were inexpensive—my parents had little money—and Mom and Dad loved to fish. I didn’t. When I think of those vacations, I remember interminably boring days sitting on the hard, dirt bank of some drab lake, swatting gnats and flies, and counting my mosquito bites. I tried to pass the time reading, but the hot sun glaring off the pages made my eyes water. I hated those trips.

I mentioned this to my brother recently, and he had a completely different view of things. He remembers those vacations with great fondness. You see, he LOVED to fish, loved the quiet of the lake, the clicking sound of the line leaving the pole when he cast, the mental gamesmanship with his prey. He feels nothing but gratitude to my parents for introducing him to a hobby he enjoys to this day.

I say to-mah-to; he says to-may-to. If you have a sibling, you know what I mean. We can grow up in the same family and remember experiences completely differently. Or we may remember something happening and have a sibling swear it never occurred. These differences may provide fodder for a spirited conversation around the Thanksgiving dinner table, but, generally, they’re nothing to get in a stew about—unless you’re writing your personal history.

You’d be surprised how many of my students worry about writing a story that a relative remembers differently. It can be paralyzing for some people.

When someone comes to me with concerns like these, I typically ask her how much it matters to her story. If it’s something as innocuous as a difference of opinion about a family vacation, own your own truth. You’re writing the story. If your brother wants to set the record straight with his truth, let him write his story.

Some families have famously done so, but it’s generally about matters more serious than family vacations. After Frank McCourt wrote Angela’s Ashes, his brother Malachy wrote his version of growing up in the McCourt family with A Monk Swimming. The same thing happened when Augusten Burroughs wrote Running with Scissors. Since then the author’s brother and mother have penned their own views of life in the Burroughs family.

There’s something called Emotional Truth. Something feels true to you because that’s the way you experienced it. Your sister may tell you later in life that you were the favored child. Her statement stuns you, because you always felt you never measured up to your mother’s expectations. So, were you completely mistaken all these years? Should you rewrite history from your sister’s perspective? Heck, no. You grew up feeling one way and that feeing infused your relationship with your parents and your whole view of yourself. That’s your emotional truth. Write it as you remember it.

Of course, our feelings can change over time. I now have a different perspective about the girl I was in high school than I had at seventeen, or even twenty-five. Which version should I write? Which version is truer? They’re both true, of course, but the version you tell depends on the scope and purpose of your story. If you’re writing a coming-of-age story like Jill Ker Conway’s Road from Coorain, you’d likely try to write from your adolescent perspective. If you’re creating a whole-life story written from the vantage of a mature adult, you’ll probably write about your youth from an adult point of view…or maybe not.

Truth issues can cause all kinds of dilemmas for memoir writers. We’ve touched on only a couple of them here. Some issues, like disagreeing about family vacations, will raise few eyebrows if you commit your truth to paper. Things become much stickier, however, when they involve the reputations of family members. In such cases, do your research, get your facts right, and proceed with caution, weighing the role a particular issue plays in your story with the potential repercussions you may face by putting it in print.