Essays or memoir? At this point, does it matter?

AWP is an acronym for the Association of Writers & Writing Programs. It’s also shorthand for an annual convention of writing folk. What’s great about AWP is that it’s a chance to reconnect with former teachers and old friends. It’s also the perfect time to gather intelligence from writers I admire. Those writers are the reason I think readers would love AWP too. 

I blogged the other day about this year’s convention in Boston at Lisa Romeo Writes, a wonderful resource for fiction and nonfiction writers alike. The following is adapted from the guest post I wrote for Lisa. This excerpt focuses on essays and memoir from the writer’s perspective, but readers will pick up some insider knowledge, not to mention several superb titles for their To Read lists. You can find the entire blog post here.  

Lately I’ve been wondering how to pitch the project I’ve been laboring over for going on three years. Is it an essay collection or a memoir? I know what I think it is and what I want it to be (essays), and I know what several agents have told me it must be (memoir). Until I’m somebody—that is, an author with so much name recognition that a publisher could actually sell an essay collection with my name on it—the argument goes, I’m stuck with the M word. Not that there’s anything wrong with memoir. I would love to publish a memoir, the operative word being publish. I just don’t think that what I read on my pages adds up to one long and connected personal story. Or should. It turned out AWP had organized a panel of established writers with whom I could commiserate. It was called The Godzilla of Nonfiction: Has Memoir Swallowed the Essay?

I’ve read Los Angeles Times columnist Meghan Daum regularly since her first book, My Misspent Youth, a collection of essays on life as a young professional, was published in 2001. During the Godzilla panel, Daum implied that by publishing essays right out of the gate, she’d snuck in under the wire; the trend toward longer narratives had not quite taken hold. She wasn’t so lucky with her most recent book, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House (2010). What she wrote as a collection of personal essays around her preoccupation with real estate became memoir when she was informed it would not sell otherwise. Daum applied what she calls “gratuitous connective tissue” to the pieces, ending the book and the property search, a little-too-tidily for her taste, with a wedding. The book, she told us, suffered as a result.

Panelist Emily Fox Gordon’s Book of Days: Personal Essays (2010) is her fourth book,which I guess makes her somebody. Gordon payed her dues: under pressure from editors, she converted two earlier collections into memoirs. At AWP, Gordon gave a worth-the-price-of-admission tutorial that riffed on the essay as confidence not confession. The writer should think of the reader not as judge or authority figure but as confidante, she said. There should be no coercion in this reader-writer relationship. Trusting that the reader is a friend will help you write the piece. Gordon spoke, too, of how the personal essay can and, to be more effective, probably should contain memoir-like narrative passages in addition to essayistic analyses of events.

It seems author David McGlynn was unconsciously trying to avoid such passages while writing essays about violence. To the audience, he expressed ambivalence about having to convert a collection of these essays to memoir, but he admitted that the act of writing scenes and descriptions of long-ago events following the home invasion and murder of a high school classmate gave him a better understanding of himself. It also became the basis of his memoir A Door in the Ocean (2012). In McGlynn’s case, the pushback from his agent that he write a memoir ultimately made for a more meaningful take on a lifelong obsession.

So has memoir devoured the essay? It seemed as though the panel was saying, Yes, but—as though willing would-be essayists to follow our hearts for as long as we can hold out. It’s a game plan I can live with. Moderator Debra Monroe is the author of the memoir On the Outskirts of Normal: Forging a Family Against the Grain. She offered a sort of end around, a way to avoid the memoir-or-essays tag altogether. Monroe described how author Jo Ann Beard managed this with her nonfiction work The Boys of My Youth, whose cover bears Beard’s name and title, but the title is not followed by a colon or subtitle. On its release in 1999, reviewers came up with their own tags for Boys (which one Godzilla panelist described as a perfect book), some calling it memoir, others referring to it as a collection of personal stories.

“I am drawn to the shagginess of the essay,” Phillip Lopate writes in the introduction to his latest collection, Portrait Inside My Head (2013). I was extremely fortunate to have Phillip as an advisor and workshop instructor at Columbia; he was also one of my thesis readers. I like his description and I like that he calls his latest assortment of essays a “hodgepodge,” a label I wish I could pull off with my own work. And how perfect that Phillip was in the audience that afternoon so that, one after the other, the writers at the panelist table could acknowledge the master.

Madrid: The Way It Was

I have never met the idol of my younger self, the star of movies I love most, like The Way We Were and Out of Africa. But recently our paths intersected. For a total of no more than three and a half minutes, he and I occupied effectively the same geographic space, first in the lobby of the Hotel Ritz Madrid, and then, a day later, just outside the entrance. We inhaled the same Spanish air, tread on the same carpet and cobblestone, and, most significantly, made eye contact, albeit fleeting. There within a few steps of me was the owner of that exceptionally gorgeous face and impressive canon of ground-breaking movies. 

Serendipity had brought my family to this jewel of a hotel that sits adjacent to the Prado and three blocks from the magnificent Parque del Retiro. Now, some incredible good fortune. Not an hour into our stay, I stopped with my girls at the concierge desk to make dinner plans when he entered through a revolving door. At first I was only conscious that here came another American. Europeans don’t typically (read: never) enter fancy hotels in t-shirts and baseball caps. I looked again. 

“Hubbell Gardiner"

Robert Redford.

I remembered to breathe only when my oldest elbowed me gently in the ribcage.

So, did I have the wherewithal to ask for an autograph or photo? I did not. 

I could have enlisted the help of a go-between. There was, moving alongside Redford, a pretty, in-charge blonde, smart phone in hand, who appeared to be managing the minute details of his comings and goings (e.g. “The elevators are over there, Bob.”). When I saw the woman the next day, she struck me as friendly and approachable in her sneakers and long linen skirt. Redford was nowhere in sight, but I could tell she was waiting for him to exit an elevator or emerge from the lounge. I guessed he was on an important call or enjoying a café con leche. As I see it now, my exchange with the woman would have gone one of two ways. Either she would have absorbed my fawning overture and granted me a (very brief) audience with himself, or she’d have deflected it, sparing me the embarrassment of dismissal by my hero, saying something like, “Oh, dear. Wow. You’re so nice to ask, but unfortunately Bob is running behind schedule already. So very sorry. Safe travels. Bye-bye.” But I was afraid to ask, didn’t want to hear myself babble away at Redford’s assistant as I had at the concierge the afternoon before, grabbing the poor man’s arm, pressing for his understanding of the magnitude of the moment. It was enough that I knew Redford was nearby. I would wait and watch him from a short distance. Two sightings, I assured myself, would be ample souvenirs.

That chilly morning in Madrid, I stood on the sidewalk outside the Ritz and watched Robert Redford leave in a large, black Mercedes, evidently for the airport as the trunk was packed with expensive luggage. He wore jeans, a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses—Ray-Bans, I decided. So 1970s Redford of him.

It didn’t take long for regret to sink in. For days I hated that I’d lacked the courage to request a picture of the two of us standing, say, side by side in front of an elaborate Christmas display in the Ritz lobby. He was in Madrid to announce the launch of Spain’s version of The Sundance Channel. A press trip, for goodness’ sake. He wouldn’t have denied me. It’s not as though the paparazzi were lined up seven deep pestering him as they’d have done decades ago. No one recognized him—or if they did, like me they kept a polite (or frozen) distance. Both times I saw him, I sensed, or thought I sensed as he glanced around, faint surprise that no one pestered him for anything. But, while we’re on the subject, don’t ask me how well he’s held up or whether he’s as short as they say. As far as I’m concerned it was Hubbell Gardiner striding across that well-appointed foyer. 

I’ve visited and revisited those three and a half minutes many times. That span is approximate of course. It didn’t occur to me to clock the encounters. Very little occurred to me. I do remember thumbing around in my consciousness for something to approach him with, but nothing coherent came together, nothing but hyper-charged feelings I would have to parse later, first for myself and then for the friends and family who excoriated me—How could I deny them this vicarious thrill?—for not exchanging a few superficial words or appealing for a photograph to post on Facebook or shaking his hand and thereby linking in a physical if cursory way, once and for all, my life to Robert Redford’s. 

Nothing but this one concrete thought crystalized as the big black car pulled away: The Ritz is not so unlike The Plaza. 

Made on the 1

“This song is for the white lady with the sunglasses.” 

Briefly I considered whether the busker who’d boarded at 96th Street was crooning about me. Plenty of other women had sunglasses—it was sunny on the street—but I couldn’t rule it out.

“This song is for the white lady with the sunglasses and the green slippers.” 

Ah, see: I had on leather flip flops, and although they were a pale jade, he couldn’t possibly see them across the crowded car. 

I held onto the bar above my head for balance and turned slightly to glance at him again. He was squat and graying and about my age, and he’d lugged an amplifier onto the 1 Train along with his electric guitar, which he didn’t play so much as strum now and then. He grinned at me through the bodies of a half dozen riders.

“This one is for the white lady with the sunglasses and the green slippers who looks like Martha Stewart.” 

I get that sometimes.

I looked around the car. Summer interns with fresh haircuts and pressed shirts smiled into their chests. A red-capped little boy whispered to his sister while peering at me sideways. An older woman shrugged playfully as if to say “go with it.” The entire car, thick with riders, had made me.

I blushed into my sleeve as he put new words to a tune I recognized though couldn’t name: “This song is for the white woman with the sunglasses and the college brain.” 

My tote read “Columbia”.

He finished with a flourish and just below 60th Street told his audience, “I’ll kiss that white woman if anyone can tell me who wrote this song.”

I could feel the blood rising to my face. He sang with relish: “One love, one heart. Let’s get together and feel all right.” 

Oh, god.

“Marley!” A dozen people hollered.

I’m a tentative subway rider. It embarrasses me to admit that despite my longtime proximity to the Big Apple, I don’t have a comfortable relationship with the New York underground. Even when I was young and a regular commuter, I walked to my office or took cabs. Now, on those rare occasions I ride the train, I swivel the stone of my wedding ring to the palm side of my hand and wedge my purse under my armpit as though I’m carrying a million dollars. I try to look casual, like I ride the subway every day, but from the time I descend those grimy steps to the platform till the moment I board my safe New Jersey commuter bus at Port Authority, my aim is be invisible. 

Which is why, on this particular day, when an amplifier ensures that I am the focal point of a subway car jammed with passengers, it’s odd that I’m not mortified. It occurs to me I am actually a little pleased. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve been a little too successful at sliding into the scenery.

His guitar quiet, the little man sidestepped through the car, collecting his receipts. Very soon he was beside me with a shy expression. As he moved past, I tapped my face, and he placed a gentle peck on my cheek.

#whyidontwrite

Recently, my friend Erin Ehsani, who when she isn’t working on her exquisite memoir promotes the work of the New York Writers Coalition, asked me to help the organization’s current cause: to make writing—more specifically #whyidontwrite—a trending topic on Twitter for a day. (Here’s Erin’s piece on both this effort and the NY Writers’ upcoming fundraiser.) 


I’m in, I told Erin—not really understanding the point. I mean, it’s counterintuitive, until you consider that writing about not writing is still writing.


Anyway, the day is here. Between Facebook, Twitter, a doctor’s appointment, welcoming Daughter #2 back from Bonnaroo, hounding Daughter #3 to clean her room, paying bills, caffeinating, planning a graduation party, keeping a secret, and listening to movie soundtracks (instead of old house rumblings), I give you the more current activities that have allowed me to muffle the call of the keyboard:


• Alphabetizing the books in my three office cases (Ikea Billys, of course)
• Breakfasting with Daughter #1 prior to her return to school and following our eggs Benedict with a trip to the Verizon store for a BlackBerry repair (and, as it turned out, replacement iPhone) 
• Erging, lately my preferred form of exercise. The machine, a Concept 2 model D, was purchased to entice #1 and #2 to join the high school crew team, which both did although they learned to despise erging in the process. There are months when the contraption sits untouched, but for now it spares my knees from running. 

• Spectating a soccer friendly between Daughter #3’s squad and a local boys’ team and enjoying how middle school flirtation can take the form of neat tackles and sweaty handshakes

• Combing the shelves of the Montclair Public Library for goodies. My latest haul included Thinking Like Your Editor: How to Write Great Serious Nonfiction—and Get It Published by Susan Rabiner & Alfred Fortunato (thank you, Elizabeth Redden for the tip) and A Field Guide to the North American Family (an illustrated fiction) by Garth Risk Hallberg, which was Erin’s suggestion.
• Re-watching The West Wing (any episode) and adding the new HBO series The Newsroom to iCal #lovethataaronsorkin 
• Prioritizing feelings of guilt over shoulds I may never get to, such as sending thank yous for recent kind gestures and minding the wild thatch of rosebushes attacking my garage

• Otherwise throwing not unimportant (but nor are they usually immobile) objects and tasks in the path of pages. 

Here’s hoping the act of fessing up puts me in a writing frame of mind. Would love to say the decks are clear for desk time tomorrow. They aren’t, but I’ll figure something out. 

My Susan Cheever Interview

I want to convince you to read (or reread) Home Before Dark: A Biographical Memoir of John Cheever By His Daughter. But maybe the place to start is at this interview with its author, Susan Cheever. The interview was published today on the blog, The Days of Yore, a great site where artists reveal their journeys to becoming established. 

I took a master class at Columbia that Susan Cheever created and taught. The focus was on writing one’s family members into fictional characters, but she covered a lot of other literary ground, and frankly I was happy to learn anything Susan Cheever wanted to teach me. I suppose I thought I’d made a small connection with her and so felt quasi-comfortable asking for an interview. She was obliging and generous and candid—and I hope she likes how it turned out. 

Here goes:

Click here for my Susan Cheever Interview on thedaysofyore.com.

Another summer over < sigh >

It was one of the better ones, too, with a dream-like cruise along the Danube River, a brief but eye-opening stint teaching high school kids at Columbia, and all my girls home, cheerful and mostly getting along. But soccer season is already under way and summer homework almost dispensed with so while I’d have liked this comfortable hum of a break to go on a bit longer, school starts tomorrow. 

Which is my cue to return to the writing desk. In summer I write less and give myself over more to writers like Sarah Vowell, whose Assassination Vacation (Simon & Schuster, 2005) is the book I’ll remember best from the last three months. A gift from my friend Richie (influenced, I believe, by my favorite bookseller, Margot Sage-El), I’m embarrassed that it sat untouched for an age, until I grabbed it to fill time during my commutes to the city. Wow, do I regret waiting! This is how I want to write nonfiction: confidently with a firm grasp on human nature as well as the past, which, in this appealing pilgrimage, Vowell conveys with affection, mischief and wit.


I’ll be brief as praise for Assassination is plentiful. Moreover, by writing here I’m not making headway on my (nonfiction) thesis. The short review is this: Vowell deputizes the reader to go with her on a series of excursions to sites around the country where she enthusiastically acquaints herself with John Wilkes Booth, Charles Guiteau and Leon Czolgosz, the assassins of Presidents Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley, respectively. She brings along relatives and friends who, as characters in her story, help to animate tired historic homes and other quite inanimate objects that show up often in her narrative and inspire lively—often comical—digressions. (Vowell loves plaques and statues.)


Vowell’s eagerness to have us draw the same “look how much things haven’t changed” connections she does is infectious. And she endeared herself to me with an assortment of modern and not-so-modern references, including (but far from limited to) the Broadway musical 1776, the website MapQuest, the Jimmy Buffet song “Margaritaville,” the architect Louis Sullivan, and Archie comic characters Betty Cooper and Veronica Lodge—not to mention the obvious: early 21st century American politics. 


Vowell’s writing voice is one of a kind. So is her speaking voice, which she parlayed into a gig moonlighting as a voiceover artist. She discusses that experience, in tandem with writing Assassination, in a video essay, called “Vowellet”. 

Serious history buffs might find Sarah Vowell too flip, but I’d caution the skeptic not to snap judge. She gives tragic moments in American history their due but assumes we know the highlights. It’s the epilogues, colorful asides, and off-the-beaten path discoveries Vowell shares that drive her unorthodox travelogue. Also receiving their due are the docents, tour guides and experts who, unlike the historic figures they declaim, live on Vowell’s pages: earnest, quirky, myopic, passionate and detail-driven folk who’ve dedicated a significant portion of their lives, if not their livelihoods, to making history accessible. Vowell’s Assassination Vacation picks up from there, leading us past a few more bends in the road.