Some writing projects require a position of conviction. When I’m writing an Op-ed it’s often because I already have a strong point of view to share and hope to persuade my reader that there’s merit in my perspective and that they too ought to consider the issue at hand through my lens. And when I’m writing a book review or memoir craft article, I include excerpts and examples to clarify my position and guide the reader with what I hope comes across as an assured and confident voice of experience.

But writing memoir requires a lot less certainty. In fact, I would argue that whether we’re working on stand-alone memoir essays or full-length manuscripts leaning hard into what we don’t know ignites our writing process and creates more depth in our work.

Again and again over the past year I’ve found that the key to the essays I completed and which ultimately found a home lay in allowing myself to be patient, curious, and unsure. Curiosity and patience tend to be powerful tools in building relationships and diffusing conflict and are integral to writing memoir.

Barking girl

Lots of my writing begins as a faint idea that solidifies as I work but with memoir that’s even truer. With memoir I need to wander and rove a lot, allow myself to stumble upon quirks and metaphors; step into a kind of dreaminess that enables me to tap into subconscious and potentially potent ideas and connections.

A few months ago, I was driving home on a grey and stormy afternoon and stopped at a red light when I saw a young girl standing just behind a man waiting to cross the street. The wind was thrashing her long hair and as I drove past the corner where she stood, I saw her open her mouth and bark into the air several times. I’d never seen anything like that and I thought about that moment quite a bit in the coming weeks. I suspected I would write about that girl in some way.

Last month I was drafting what was becoming an essay exploring confinement, escape, and childhood loss. It was there I formed my first words about the barking girl intuiting she might belong in that essay. As I wrote I began to understand the girl on the corner barking had left an impression in part because of how wild and unencumbered she struck me. In context to my other paragraphs and sections about confinement and escape, she became representative of a kind of freedom I yearned for.

Of course, when I first made note of and tucked the image of the barking girl into my creative toolbox, I didn’t know how it might become significant later but trusted something was speaking to me. Another writer might have taken something else away from that windy moment on the corner, they might have paid more attention to the way the man was standing or maybe they might not have noticed either the girl or the man. But it is in what strikes us and what we go back to understand better that makes memoir ours. Memoir is our search, our not knowing; our particular curious fingerprint fashioning our story.

What am I trying to say?

Imagine writing memoir as building a structure, a nest for example, with some materials you have at hand and also those you must go out looking for. An important part of the process is to follow your instincts: the image that flashes in your mind you didn’t plan, a scent you haven’t thought of in years, a memory of too-tight shoes blistering your heels in 2^nd grade that arrives unbidden. The particular, quirky, and inexplicable is what you want to explore.

As you write memoir allow what pops in your head to exist on the page. If you have a hunch there’s heft to it, you’re probably right.

When this happens:

-Write down what pops up

-Write down what it reminds you of

-Write down why you might have thought of it

-Follow the connections that you discover until you feel you’ve hit upon the heart of what you need to say

As memoirists we can’t possibly know beforehand the many different pieces that will become part of the puzzle we’re solving, but this genre rewards the process. And sharing our doubts is a powerful way to build trust with readers. We get to call out our uncertainty on the page and speculate, use it as a springboard for more self-discovery. We can include what we normally might filter out from other forms of nonfiction, moments like “I don’t know why I keep returning to this memory but…” and “I wonder sometimes if had gone back to say goodbye if…”

When we share the parts of ourselves and our stories that surprise us, that we can’t always make sense of, we breathe life into memoir.

Come see me at the San Diego Writers Festival

On April 5, 2025 I’ll be at the Sand Diego Writers Festival moderating and co-paneling Daughters of Memoir: Healing Intergenerational Trauma. I’m excited to speak with

How many episodes!?

As of this writing there are now almost 160 episodes of Let’s Talk Memoir available! My recent guests include

Listen here and on your favorite podcast platform.

That’s all for now. I look forward to learning about your memoir project and any questions you might have. Feel free to drop them below in the comments or message me if you prefer.

Until next time,

Ronit