Memoir Writing Class 2015

It's that time of year again. I'm teaching two eight week sessions of memoir writing at the Puyallup Senior Activity Center.

Every Friday I'm privileged to spend at least two hours with a group of women (occasionally a man will venture in) who want to tell their stories. Yesterday was the last class of the first session.

 

"I'll go first. I want to get this over with," one of the participants said yesterday. We all laughed, but with understanding because the assignment for the week was to write about a difficult or sad time in life, how the person got through it, and what was learned from the experience. It was the same assignment for everyone and many of the other seven women felt the same way.

Most of my students write their histories to leave as a legacy for family members, but there are some who simply write for themselves with no intention of sharing with anyone other than the women who come together once a week.

From the stories that were shared yesterday, it was evident the women had gained confidence in their writing and trusted the others to keep what they heard within the group. There were a few tears and certainly a lot of sympathy for what was revealed from their past.

We ended the day on a brighter note, reading excerpts from high school students' writings that English teachers have collected over the years. The way in which they used similes was hilarious. Here are three of my favorites:

Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

And so it goes with these classes. Strangers come together, share their histories, find common bonds, are amazed by what they can remember and write about, laugh a lot and sometimes shed a tear with one another. Many have returned to class two and three times.

A student announced at the end of class yesterday that I don't get paid for teaching. That really isn't true. I get excited about spending Fridays with my new acquaintances, some of whom have become friends. I'm honored to hear about their lives and help them hone their writing skills. So when it comes to payment, I'm more than compensated, not in dollars and cents, but with intangibles more precious than gold. 

Passion

Passion... and I don't mean hot, under the covers (or not), lust-filled desire. I'm talking about that compelling interest that occupies your thoughts first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It's the thing that perhaps you dream about and spend an inordinate amount of time during waking hours either engaged in or wanting to.

So what happens when you have more than one of these compelling interests and one day you wake up and one is becoming more of a "love interest" than the other?

That's what's happening to me. For six years, I've devoted time, energy and money to a particular passion that initially drew me to it, rewarded me by fueling my creative juices, gave me lots of positive feedback and allowed me to meet incredible people. Since the first of the year, my heart has been captured by another and I'm finding the siren song irresistible.

The only way I could cope with this push/pull was to set aside passion number one, photography, for at least a month, perhaps longer. And for every resolution, there's always an exception which I've already made. There are certain clients to whom I just can't say "no." These are the folks I can't wait to see and for whom I truly want to capture memorable moments. I'm sure I'll continue to make those exceptions, but I'm not out beating the bushes for new clients.

In the meantime, I've become compulsive about writing - not this blog which is obvious since this is my first in 2015 and it's the last day of January! I've decided this is the year to pull my father's stories out of the file cabinet and weave them into a memoir about his life. For some reason, it's much easier to write about someone else, even though a family member, than it is to write about myself. Now that I've committed to my father's project, lots of wonderful things are happening. I've been a member of a writer's group that meets monthly for almost a year, but this month two other memoirists are joining the group, both published authors who will be such an inspiration, along with the already talented women in the group.

I also found a company that is converting VHS tapes of my father and his stories into a CD that I'll actually be able to use. But most importantly, I've been able to spend time with my 80 year old sister, Lore, learning more about her mother, my dad's first wife. She had in her possession letters written by her mother, Dorothy, to my dad, Webb, over a period of four years from 1936 to 1939. Those letters are now on loan to me.

I find I'm also more enthused about teaching my memoir writing class at the Puyallup Senior Activity Center. I'm experiencing the discipline of writing that I talk to my students about every Friday. It's a good idea to be able to do what you teach!

Will I tire of this passion too? Perhaps. Will I be able to pick up photography again where I left off? I don't know. But the beauty of it all is that I am blessed to be able to have these kind of choices, these kind of interests. I have something positive to look forward to each day. Who knows - perhaps there are still other undiscovered passions in my future, other sirens that will call my name.

Bandage Box, Picnic Plastic & Pretty Purse

"Write for four minutes each about what you see. I'll pass them around so you can look more closely."

The writing instructor handed a bandage box, a beaded purse and a white plastic picnic knife to the nearest of eight students. "When you free write, don't worry about punctuation or grammar, just let the words flow from the end of your pen. Don't censor, or correct, just write the first thoughts that come to mind. After you've written about the objects, then spend a couple more minutes, writing about the common thread you find in what your wrote."

These are the words that flowed from my pen during that fifteen minutes writing exercise:

Bandage Box. The box of bandages in my home resides in the left hand cupboard near the bathroom sink. I pull out a bandage, tear it open and as usual, manage to rip the bandage too. They don't make 'em like they use to when mom would put one on my scrapes and scratches. She was a care giver all her life - of me and particularly my father, the wild and crazy red neck, hard, hat, whiskey drinking ladies' man. Although married for 52 years, she became even more stoic over time, perhaps enabled by screwdrivers she came to favor as her drink of choice. I sat in her hospital room the last week of her life. "Do you still love me?" my father, standing beside her bed asked. "Why should I?" she faintly replied.

Plastic Knife. Hard, yet flimsy and white. The box they come in always promises strength, but without fail, they break at the most critical moment. Better for spreading butter than opening a paint can, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't try the impossible. Sometimes it's a matter of using what's available, even if I know the results will be disastrous. I often walked through open doors just to see what was on the other side, not thinking about consequences. It was all about curiosity and discovery.

Beaded Purse. The intricately beaded handbag rests in my dresser drawer. It was my mother's or perhaps her mother's. A treasure never used now, seldom used by my mother and given its origin in time, I can only imagine and hope it was a beautiful accessory for my grandmother. Her life was so hard. It was all work and no play. There were eight mouths to feed on the farm in South Dakota, at a time when beautiful purses weren't needed, necessary or desired. There wouldn't have been time for much dress up.

The Thread.  I come from a line of strong women who had little joy in their lives, but who afforded me opportunities to experiment with life. I'm grateful.

Revisiting Memories

It's the last day of the month and the fourth Friday of eight for teaching Writing Memoir at the Puyallup Senior Center.

This class continues to amaze me. Actually it's not the class, it's the people who share a room with me one day a week for two hours. They come as strangers and while we all listen, soon feel comfortable enough share their life stories, not all of which are happy. There are tears at times and fortunately, lots of laughter. The critiquing of one an other's writing is honest, thoughtful and meant to encourage rather than to point out flaws in technique.

Although all are asked to write comments about the qualities of a piece and to jot down suggestions for improvement, there are times when we get so caught up with the story, the beautiful descriptions, the humor, or just the flow of the narrative, writing becomes impossible. We just want to listen and enjoy. So be it! That's what we do.

I use a workbook approach and provide tools each week to make a point and to give ideas for subjects, but the class has certainly become more than just a way to pass time for me or for the students. Most in class are over 60 and come with varied backgrounds and rich histories. Through the sharing, friendships have emerged and there is an eagerness to share information and ideas even outside the classroom.

Today I handed out a bookmark I made that expresses my sentiments about the class perfectly. It reads:

The business of life is collecting memories.

Your business now is to revisit them with love.

Writing with the Women

Bonnie - Age Three

I've recently finished teaching another memoir writing course at the Puyallup Senior Activity Center. I've been teaching there for the past two years. It's eight weeks, two hours each Friday and this is how it's been advertised:

Learn and experience the benefits of writing about your life. This 8-week course will get you started and keep you going. In this fun, friendly, interactive workshop where you can share your stories, you'll have a reference book to aid you and plenty of encouragement.

This brief description doesn't begin to explain what can transpire in this course, nor does it describe my gratitude for participants' open and honest sharing of personal histories. The following piece written by one of the participants comes closer than I ever could to telling what memoir writing with others can do. (This class happened to be all women).

WRITING WITH THE WOMEN
By Jacquie Martens

To meet new people and develop my writing skills, I decided to take a writing class at the local Senior Center.  The only one available was a class on how to write your memoirs which didn’t really interest me but started much earlier than any other.

The first class we all introduced ourselves and the teacher went over what the class involved.  We purchased the book she would use to teach us.  So far, so good.  Then we went over what was going to be needed for the second class….a notebook divided into different areas so we could organize our thoughts and writings as we worked our way through our past.  Made good sense.  Then came the news our writings would be like offerings and our innermost thoughts and feelings would be exposed to one another for review and critique.  Busted!    It felt like showing up at my first Karaoke experience with a sore throat.

There were only a few of us and our first assignment was to “free write” a timed piece to be read and commented on by the class.  After explaining the concept of free writing, we were set loose with our project.  As we went around the table reading our work, I felt a couple of the students were very uncomfortable with the process.  One because he couldn’t hear and the other didn’t seem to want to share what she’d written. 

By the fourth class, we had dwindled to three…myself and two other ladies who were taking the class for the second time…they had enjoyed the first so much they didn’t want to stop.  The classes were following the book written by a local author and the lessons required we search our memories.  The assignments were short essays written to reveal our best recollections of time past.  Stories began to come easier as we developed trust in our classmates and we were more comfortable as we exposed them to the critique process…

The woman beside me has an important story to tell.  To her, this isn’t just a class…it’s cobblestones in a road that’s taking her through the memories of a war torn continent…beginning in her early years with family as the clock ticked--marking the passage of time not just in years, but months, days and sometimes minutes.  Her stories come alive when she reads.  The language is English, but spoken with a heavy European accent which only adds to the telling.  The chosen words bespeak an intelligence and grasp of the importance in sharing.  Her life, touched by so much drama, can only be described as remarkable.  We encourage her to keep writing and are mesmerized by her memories

The woman across from me tells of a simpler, kinder life, one of family, love and understanding in a marriage that’s spanned 50 years….to the same man.  Her words suggest a spiritual formation providing guidelines to be followed, making a better neighbor in a better community with a stable future.  The story of her marriage, leaving her parents and familiar surroundings and their first home in a different state took you there as she experienced the feelings of beginning a new life

They’re an inspiration to me, and as I listen to these two ladies in class, I’m able to put us all in perspective.  Each life, no matter the beginnings, the middles or futures, has meaning.  We each are important in this world and we each have a story to tell.  Listening to them and being able to search my own memories makes it easier to face my life with courage. As my path unwinds and I search my soul, I’m understanding some of us write for release, some to tell the family, some to tell the world and, in my case, the lady in the mirror as I discover who I really am.

Writing Memoir

How did it get to be the 24th of July already? And a beautiful Sunday it was, although I observed most of it via peripheral vision. I sat (and am still sitting) at my computer, perpendicular to my office door which was open to the warmth, sunlight, and splashing sound of two fountains in my little pocket garden. Oh, and the door was also open to a few flies who managed to annoy me as I worked on a flyer for a class I'll be teaching in September on Writing Memoir.

Last night, I finished reading the Pulitzer Prize winning memoir, Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt. (As I write this, the words in my head have an Irish lilt). This memoir recalls McCourt's childhood and teenage years in Limerick, Ireland, a childhood so daunting in terms of survival, it's a wonder he and his three brothers lived through it at all. Three other children in his family did not. This book was the first of four memoirs I have lined up to read in the next few weeks. I'm also in the process of gathering sorting and  scanning every picture I can find of me, my family, my husband, and our children.

When my parents passed away, they had boxes of pictures. I've also been a photo album creator (not just online) for quite some time, so those albums will need to be taken apart and catalogued. While sorting through boxes, bibles, journals and diaries, I'm also finding written treasures. My father copied a beautiful Indian prayer he saw at the Sioux Indian School in South Dakota. I found all the letters I wrote home when I spent 18 months living and working in Australia. Since I'm not done with the exploration, I'm expecting to unearth more.

All of this is in preparation for teaching the class on Memoir Writing. This is a class on the benefits of memoir, how to get started, how to keep going, and what to do with it when you're finished - if one ever does! I've been wanting to write stories about my life experiences for quite some time. Now, I'll be able to share my experience with others, which will be wonderful motivation to keep going. The primary memory jogger for me will be photos (surprise!). I'll also be able to help others scan and restore their photos. As I sorted through mine, I was able to relive those moments once again. I'm able "to taste life twice", as described by famous diarist, Anais Nin - and will be helping others do the same.

So, how did it get to be the 24th of July? Time is fleeting and now I'm on a quest to rewind the clock, take a trip down memory lane, and help others do the same. Here's to the adventure of it all!  BonnieKingPhotography.com