Fran Macilvey

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January 23, 2020

The past is a foreign country

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The past is a foreign country

I used to wonder about the saying, “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently, there.”

But after my father died and we discovered that he had kept every scrap of correspondence he had ever received from anyone, my sister became interested in reading the letters exchanged between my parents, and has talked of writing their story. Perhaps part of her motivation stems from the realisation that we have had surprisingly few real-life opportunities to get to know our parents well.

Mercifully, perhaps, by then I had written my memoir, and so was not drawn into the drama of this idea. Curiously, I felt a reserve, though I have never yet opined directly that I think the past deserves to be left well alone. My own past, well, I can revisit that as often as I wish, and though I rarely do so, I might, if that was with a view to finding something positive in it, or to reframe an old belief in the light of a new understanding. I may have thought that a certain time in my life was rubbish. So, if I could revisit and see things differently, how might that alter how I see the rest of my life?

But the lives of other people? I would be very wary indeed of sharing, or even reading, obviously private letters written and passed between two other people.

It’s not my possible sense of alienation talking, just an awareness that, having spent so little “family” time with my parents, I would probably misread their letters. If they were reserved with me, and if they didn’t talk about stuff, maybe there is good reason for that. I can’t help thinking that the idea of “letting it all out into the open” is rather a false hope, since all words are prone to being misunderstood: It’s only my words and experiences that I can have any hope of adequately explaining.

It is tempting to think that letters give us “unique access” to the minds of others. And indeed, letters as a medium of expression are uniquely personal and poignant. Recently I was helping my sister to slim down her huge archive of past correspondence, and found that I simply couldn’t. What to keep, what to let go, was not my decision, precisely because what is precious to one person is not so much, to another. And letters can give tracking to the whole of a life, in a way that other forms of communication simply do not.

Thanks for listening.

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January 20, 2020

To collate our memories

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To collate our memories

In writing memoir, since the point is to collate our memories and experiences, we do not need to do exhaustive research.

Of course, if someone does offer useful feedback, use it, so long as that information is about practical, everyday details that will make our narrative more interesting or credible. Thus, household details and timelines wil be useful; on the other hand, no matter how often Great Aunt Augusta reassures you that, “Yes, of course you can mention that I was born in an orphanage dear, no-one cares about that sort of thing nowadays…!” resist the urge to wander into the thickets of another person’s past. The past is murky, at best, Aunt Agatha may later have qualms, and without being privy to her social and emotional context, we are most unlikely to do Aunt Agatha justice.

If we are clear that we are writing about our own experiences as we remember them, this also, and quite naturally, preserves our best defence: that we are allowed to express ourselves and, in so doing, to record our impressions of our own experiences. And while the best version of these will be what we can clearly remember at that time, even our erroneous interpretations of the past, taken as a snapshot in the present day, are allowable and can be excused.

I have said that during “Stage One” writing we may borrow and abuse as much information as we like. In the privacy of our rooms we can indeed use the “delve and expose” methodology for our own catharsis; and laying bare what lies in the deepest recesses of our hearts may be necessary for our own sanity. In this situation, no-one will ever know, and no-one can challenge, what we first write. So long as we later have the courage to excise and refine ruthlessly.

Since it very challenging to be objective about events and circumstances that have caused us the most emotional pain, I prefer to stick to the “no borrowing” rule as much as possible from the outset. If we find that to be too difficult, I suggest having a separate document marked “Private and confidential” in which we record painful details before we even attempt a version that might be for publication.

Thanks for listening.

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January 13, 2020

Trespassing on other lives

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Trespassing on other lives

We will generally avoid controversy if, in telling our story through memoir, we stick to the storyline of our own life and resist, at all costs, the many temptations that will arise for trespassing on other lives or poaching juicy details from others’ life narratives to enhance our own.

By which I mean, we are at liberty to borrow aspects and memories that are relatively uncontroversial and which add colour: I was born in interesting circumstances at a very colourful time. Therefore, I have considerable freedom to highlight how interesting these circumstances were. And if on the way, I find I must refer to personal details about my relatives, say, I will do my best in those colourful times to show them in a good, even flattering light: I use a light hand, and steer clear of anything remotely personal that is not directly relevant to me.

For example, one of my siblings may have encountered interesting, even rather tragic events; but I must not borrow from their narrative to enhance my own, even if what happened with them had an impact on my mental health or gave me nightmares. If someone dear to me was assaulted, say, I may mention my general unhappiness and sleepless nights at the time but would be better to resist the urge to refer back to this particular cause, unless the cause was severe or singular and therefore became part of my own memories and narrative. It’s a matter of degree and it can be hard to make that judgement.

If we feel tempted or entitled to include reference to episodes or stories about others, that will only be because (a) we were also directly part of that experience, (b) we are consumed with jealousy and unhappiness, which suggests that our experiences are still too raw to be written about; or (c) we have not done enough to make our own lives interesting, in which case we should stop writing meantime, and go away and make our lives more interesting.

Thanks for listening.

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January 6, 2020

Happy New Year 2020

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Happy New Year 2020

Despite the current rash of sad news which seems to wrap itself around us like barbed wire – turmoil in the Middle East, Brexit uncertainty, the seeming melt-down of large areas of the planet – I am more determined than ever to stay patient, resolute, and as cheerful as possible in 2020.

What good does it do me to increase my unhappiness by worrying?

When I worry, it’s something else I have to get my head around before I can do anything that will help me to feel more purposeful and less worried. And there is a lot I, and we, can do! Ten minutes of daily exercise, two minutes a day tidying our local outdoors, ten seconds smiling at someone we meet on a walk, the intention of shopping more purposefully with local producers and farmers, donating our time to good causes or the local political scene, turning up at our local community hall or library to check out the latest books and events… Even remembering to take a couple of plastic bags – one for litter, one for our shopping – as we head out of the door each day.

What a difference it makes, when we do something that makes a difference! Gardening, listening, putting out bird-feeders. Doing something beneficial each day has the added advantage of reminding us of our good fortune: helping others helps us to feel good about our place in the world, and the good we contribute to it, in small steps, one thing at a time.

My resolution this year is to remain patient, to apply myself in whatever way I can to the tasks that need doing, and to have faith that all my small steps make a difference.

I wish you and yours a peaceful, prosperous year.

Thanks for listening.

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December 23, 2019

It can be hard to know

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It can be hard to know

It can be hard to know what episodes of a life to include, and which to omit.

If I saw something which for me was hugely informative – perhaps I saw my mother crying or my father shouting – do I mention that? Or is it part of the “foreign country” past of others that is best left alone?

In general, I would include mention of any or all particularly telling episodes in early drafts as often as I like until I had come to a clearer and more compassionate understanding of the dynamics of, for example, my parents’ relationship and could see it from a more rounded perspective. In writing, I would continue to refine my understanding of any events until I could feel, for example, the reasons for my parents’ frustrations and could glimpse more of the reasons why they found life difficult.

Certainly, their relationship has been formative in my other relationships, and of course I may say so. But any direct attribution of hardship, say, should be avoided. Compare,

~ “Aware of the tense atmosphere between my parents, I became withdrawn and unhappy”.

This may be true, but a statement of this order is likely to cause bad feeling, since we appear to attribute all or most of our unhappiness to the tension in our parents’ relationship: the old, “It’s all your fault” trap. Much better, and far more interesting, to hint at a challenging atmosphere and show all the other things with which we were directly involved that certainly would have made life difficult.  

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~ “Becoming aware of how volatile my parents’ marriage later was, I try to make my own marriage as harmonious as possible, though it’s amazing how often I still fail in this.”

I may know my parents’ relationship had its challenges, and my parents may even have confided in me about that, but that confidence deserves to be respected.

I suspect that my advice would be, that if a person lays a hand on you, you may mention it; if we saw them lay a hand, or exchange cross words with another, perhaps a single, immediate reference to what we saw or felt will be enough. As with other forms of narrative, show, don’t tell, and resist the urge to mine for sympathy.

Thanks for listening.

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December 17, 2019

What I can comment on

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What I can comment on

In writing memoir, when it comes to those whose lives intersect mine, sooner or later I shall have to decide what I can comment on – carefully – and what should remain shrouded in tactful silence. This dilemma is especially challenging when we are forced to borrow aspects of experience in which we have no direct part, a process of necessary borrowing which should be resorted to very sparingly.

It may be that my parents were very loving to each other, in which case I can comment on the evidence I saw of that and how I experienced it, but not that which they experienced together in private. Compare, “My parents were passionately devoted to each other” – how would I know, and to what degree can I comment on their passion? – with “I often saw my father kiss my mother, so I grew up assuming that everyone behaved this way.” But hold your horses, it’s not evidence of love that people tend to get upset about.

So more pertinently, I may know that my parents argued a lot, and that may well have affected the atmosphere round the dining table – which I can comment on, since I experienced that atmosphere and would have drawn conclusions about it. I may have witnessed my parents having a row, and that also I can comment on; but any deeper references or even hints about the reasons why, are my parents’ reasons, and not for me to borrow.

Though I have disagreed with others on this, I do believe that the past is a foreign country, and that, in recalling the past for our own narrative we had best remember:-

~ That we can comment on what we saw or experienced;

~ We can invent or reconstruct likely conversations that took place in an attempt to replicate flavour, atmosphere and likely attitudes;

~ We should omit, in the final analysis, all references to conduct between two or more others about which we have no direct knowledge.

For example, I came to the United Kingdom from Africa when I was three. My siblings did not travel with me on that journey. I can, therefore, comment on my naïve impressions of that trip by ship and can give some idea of why I thought it happened. But I was not aware, or told, what happened to my siblings while I was away, though I can comment on feelings of unexpected estrangement with them that followed my return with my mother to Africa after several months’ absence.

Thanks for listening.

To be continued.

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December 13, 2019

Writing from our own perspectives

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Writing from our own perspectives

When we first write, we do so mainly to recall our impressions, homing in on what we remember. When we start out writing from our own perspectives, our recollections may have a very “interesting” relationship with the facts. Our version of events may be exaggerated or false, especially if we are writing of our infancy or youth. It’s not that youngsters are wrong, but they see the world from a very different angle and are necessarily concerned with their place in the world, and therefore prone to exaggerating their importance to the scheme of things. As we grow up and grow taller, our vision usually widens, and we see that what we thought was true, cannot always have been.

But since in memoir we are writing from our memories, in many cases we are right to record our own very personal impressions, because they can certainly affect our future perspectives. There is nothing wrong in writing from our own perspective. And doing so gives memoirists one of their best defences.

So far, you may have gleaned that there are two main defences to anyone who may be offended by the tone and tenor of your memories:-

~ Authenticity – When we write in our own authentic style and are as true as we can be to our own purposes, though we can be criticised by some, we still have the right to our self-expression.

~ When we write as much from our own perspective as possible, who among even our most offended acquaintances can really take exception to that? I cannot really argue with another person’s experience of life; I can’t tell them they are “wrong” in laying out their perspectives honestly. I can reassure them that there were no snakes under the bed after lights out and the bells that woke us every morning were not a spaceship’s klaxons because these are unusual fantasies; but recounting most activities, who’s to argue with another person’s point of view?

Thanks for listening.

(To be continued.)

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December 9, 2019

A very necessary process

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A very necessary process

Stage one “splurge” writing is, I contend, a very necessary part of what will end up – several years later – as a finished memoir that someone else may read with pleasure. Stage One splurge is the leap of the cliff that may end badly, but since we are writing alone and for ourselves only, we do have total freedom to write and re-write whatever we like, as often as we need to, until our scalding thoughts have cooled enough to be moulded unto something more presentable.

I suspect that without this very necessary process of uncensored writing, our finished product may be very polished, but may lack heart. And since one of the purest defences to any allegations of unkindness, cruelty or falsehood is authenticity, I think that the creative splurge at step one of memoir writing is a vital part of the creative whole. 

So we splurge, and then after acres of scribbling we surface and then what? Well, if you are anything like me, you will rewrite and edit about a million times, because while splurge is necessary for our sanity, it does not always make the best reading. It may be that only very select parts of our original splurge spree will ever get into print. A process of trimming and excision that is particularly true of memoir.

It is not much use asking a memoirist at the early stages in their journey to “stay objective” or “be nice to other people”. If a memoirist is worried about being unkind or subjective or cruel, s/he are nowhere near ready to go public. If, during the process of editing and refining, we are asking a memoirist to reconsider aspects of what they have written, that is either because (a) we are reading an early-stages manuscript that should still be locked-down and private, or (b) we have been invited to give editorial feedback on a manuscript which needs paring back and reorganising.

Thanks for listening. (To be continued.)

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December 5, 2019

Stage One Writing

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Stage One writing

There are many things to consider when writing memoir. And there are things we can do, to make the disclosures we – eventually – publish, easier to live with. But that comes only after we have gone through the initial processes of writing, editing, agonising and re-writing… All of which can take a year or three.

Make a start, because the process itself will, if we approach it in a positive spirit, throw more light on what to do next.

Any writing can be broken down into several stages. The first stage, which I suppose we may characterise very approximately as “splurge”, is not intended to be read by anyone except its originator, the author. At its most useful, it is uncensored, emotive stuff thrown on the page at speed and without thought or plan. It is, in some ways, the purest form of original creation.

Stage One writing is only ever read by the author. And it seems to be particularly applicable to memoir. Therefore, in getting the first scratchings down on the page and out of our system we can be as crass, rude, unfair and unkind in what we write at that stage. Writing memoir is very often about laying our ghosts to rest. So forming something out of thoughts and long-held memories, it is a good idea to excavate hard with the feelings and let the words express themselves as they wish. Which means, we can write anything; which means in turn, that there is a tacit agreement that what we have written is not shown to anyone else.

If what we have produced on the page is “respectable” enough to be read by anyone else at this early stage in the proceedings, perhaps we have not really been honest at all. Or perhaps we really have had a wonderful life and want to share the joy. Cool.

Far too many authors are guided by the gremlin or the ghost that lives on their shoulder into thinking that they must, at all costs, and too early in the proceedings, be dignified and reasonable. Whereas, it is neither dignity nor reason that drives a person – perhaps almost insane with despair – to take that first step and start writing.

Thanks for listening.

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December 2, 2019

Life would have been easier

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Life would have been easier…

Life would have been easier, certainly, if I had ever positively, finally, decided to give up all my ideas of writing “Trapped”, or indeed, of ever writing anything properly. I never did positively decide not to. The idea just kept creeping up on me until it was irresistible, so I guess memoir writers just have to get used to living dangerously…

And I can’t say that, though life would have been easier, it would have been more fun. I would have had plenty more time to worry whether I was doing the best I could, whether I should be writing and whether I was missing opportunities. I would probably have wilted away to almost nothing. But hey, what’s that, compared to the damage we could do, making the effort to write and perhaps, in the process, offending someone else’s notion of propriety?

Memoir is defined as the story of our memories, written in what the industry categorises as “narrative non-fiction” style; that is, like a novel, but with elements of truth in it. The difference with autobiography and biography is instructive. Biography utilises verifiable names, dates, timelines and events, whereas a memoirist  concerns herself with the recall of her memories, which may have little or no bearing on what actually happened: a crucial distinction which in itself reveals both the dangers of writing memoir, and the defences we can deploy in the interests of harmony and to shield ourselves from adverse comments.

It is possible, indeed probable, that on occasion, and perhaps when we least expect it, we will have to contend with unreasonable people. It’s never those whom we assume are bound to be most offended, who are. And when writing anything that we hope will one day see publication, we must accept the risk that there will be those who will be unhappy both with what we have written, and with the fact that we have bothered – or dared – to publish it.

I’ve never let another person’s lack of reason or self-discipline stop me from expressing myself; and, sensible caution aside, I contend that anyone who lets worries such as these stop them writing, is putting the cart before the horse. Publication – probably the point at which most people will read our work for the first time – as a goal can take anything from two to ten years. Writing – which only we need ever read – we can start immediately.

Thanks for listening.

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