Writing a memoir seems like a lot of pressure. Whenever something feels immovable to me, I like to think about what the very smallest, most simple expression of the idea might be; the essence of the idea.
In 1970 Joe Brainard published an experimental memoir titled I Remember. The entire book is a collection of statements prefixed with those words. What is a memoir, after all, if not your memories.
If you reframe a memoir from the idea that you likely have in your head to the idea above, I’d bet that it becomes easier to get started. Not “write this masterpiece,” but “write down what you remember.”
You might not want to publish an entire memoir like that, but you certainly need the memories to write the memoir you want, so you almost can’t lose. It’s either final or it’s fodder, and both are just fine.
To help me write my own, I’ll take the opportunity to borrow from Joe and recount the memories that surface for me whilst I sit here today.
I remember buying The Animals of Farthing Wood on VHS from Selfridges during my first trip to London as a young boy. I played that video tape non-stop, because it’s the only one I had.
I remember going down into the cellar of our house for the first time, and wondering why old cellars were required to look (and smell) as though bad things had happened in them a long time ago.
I remember when our parrot, Max, escaped his cage and pooped right on some Monopoly money that was on the table. I remember how—for some reason—that money instantly became lucky.
I remember being upset with my father (in the regular young-child sort of way), and destroying a pom pom hedgehog that he’d made for me. I remember feeling terrible about it. I still feel terrible.
I remember having a family picnic on the racecourse and seeing a hot air balloon about to take off the other side. I remember sprinting towards it, hoping they’d let me on if only I could get there in time.
I remember excitedly buying stick insects from the pet store, and—once in their enclosure—never really knowing whether I was looking fondly at my new pets or simply staring at an actual twig.
I remember when my goldfish died, and the hours I spent crying afterwards. It was the first time I’d thought about death, and I’ve thought about it almost every day since. I’d happily have waited.
I remember when I got zip-up shoes, and how my first-grade teacher would dismiss students by whether they had velcro or laces. She took a few minutes to notice that I hadn’t gone anywhere.