So, You Want to Write a Memoir

I have written several novels and have published two memoirs, my memoir Starving Girl and my mom’s memoir The Memory Catcher.  

My mom author and researcher Sarah Hinze and I being 

photographed for our local newspaper.  2103

I find reading and writing memoirs meaningful to the things I know to be eternally true.  I feel as we do simple, yet extraordinary things, our personal stories are magnified and meaning is everywhere.  Here are a few tips to get started:

1)     Find the most meaningful part of your story.  For me, it was my first 30-days of fasting.  I wrote in real time, but much of my memoir looked at past experiences.  Look through your blog, facebook, old journals, photos, etc.  Find your angles, quirky unusuals, meaningful life lessons, etc. See if you have one life experience bigger than the others.  What are the common themes?  What part of your life is your best story? 

2)     Don’t get too stuck on dates.  Most biographies do not read like my book, where dates are the start of each chapter, but do try to start a chronological path of each meaningful experience.  Think of Erin Brochovich, Julie and Julia, Eat Pray Love, Wild, The Glass House, etc.

3)     Don’t get lost in the details, at first.  The details will come later.  Be very general, but once you have your outline finished, I want you to put yourself right back in that scene and think of your emotions.  Emotions are the best teachers.  At this point, I want you to get specific.  More ideas will flood your mind.  Keep going.  Go detail crazy. Think of your senses.  Bring in past experiences that might be significant at this point.  Your input has no boundaries.  Ask yourself questions.  Research your own ideas.

4)     The start of your book should be a gripping, emotional story to pull the reader in.  The event maybe didn’t even happen during your “best life story”, but it is a monumental experience that opened your eyes to what?  Love?  Adventure?  Commitment?  Overcoming?  Whatever it is, and you probably haven’t written this scene, start digging to get it done.

5)     I kept my baggage out of my book.  This doesn’t mean I’m not revealing or even vulnerable, but I tried to focused every story on strength, overcoming and self-discovery.  No preaching and no gossiping.  I spoke very kindly of my loved ones, because I love so many of the people who make their way into my book.  I made a point to not reference “You.” Or make generalizations about what most people might think or do.  Everything I wrote about was written from the “I.”

6)     Pray like the dickens.  God has asked us to journal, to keep a family history, etc.  Although writing a memoir is not the same as writing in your journal, please know Heavenly Father will help you ( But you already know this.)

7)     If you don’t think you can write about a certain scene, write it anyway.  If it’s something embarrassing, revealing, shocking, emotional, write it generally.  Think of scenes you’ve read in other books like the scene in Wild when Cheryl had to shot her mother’s horse or when Elizabeth Smart wrote about her rape in My Story.  When I wrote Starving Girl, I imagined everyone close to me reading it.  I had to remind myself most of the people I know won’t even read my memoir.  I had to write the story for me and there were certain necessary scenes I had to make fit.  Second of all, your story is intended for a bigger audience.  Be silly, don’t take yourself too seriously.  Write it for your own sake and decide later if you have the courage to include it in your memoir.  For me, in the writing I found the courage to overcome.  

8)     Write and then, we-write.  Edit, write and re-write.  Write, put it away, work on another scene, then go back and read your previous work.  Rinse and repeat, ok, don’t rinse.

9)     Keep a log of ideas.  I would be out on a walk or folding laundry, and an idea would come to mind.  You don’t want to lose any of this.  I would speak into my phone and email my ideas to my computer.  Don’t think, “Oh, I’ll remember it later.”  This is a trap.  Take your ideas seriously.  Invest in yourself.

10) Listen to motivational talks.  Be inspired.  Read memoirs.  Listen to audio books.  Study your favorite authors.  Research their lives.  When people ask “What do you do?”  reply, “I’m an author.”  Start looking at yourself differently. 

11) Ask yourself, “What is it I want to say?”  What do you wish was out their in literature?  Have you found it?  Write the book you’d want to read.  Say the things you’d want to hear.  Be the voice.  Be strong in your convictions (without preaching). 

12) Do not seclude your audience by clinging to certain religious or cultural differences.  Be more general with these ideas, as they might turn certain readers off. 

13) Keep the flow.  Once a story ends, end it.  Do not analyze things to death.  Allow the reader to fill in some of the gaps.  Don’t write, “My husband is the best.”  Instead, write about a time he proved he was the best.  Show, don’t tell.

14) Allow us into your mind.  Let us hear the pros and cons.  Let us hear your inner battle, the courtroom drama, etc.  The inner growth and struggle is a key part of the story.

15) If you have written on your blog or kept a journal, many of your stories are already in their first–draft format.  If possible, use some of your past writings to propel you forward and think, “I’m so glad I kept this stuff written down.”

Remember, every rule can be broken if necessary to share your story.  So, there you have it.  Writing your own memoir is a thrilling, rewarding journey that I think more women should experience.  Your life story has real villains and heroes, adventures to unknown destinations and gripping accounts of overcoming.  Email me at mydeartrash@gmail.com if you have any questions.  Happy Writing.

Find it on Amazon and Kindle.

Find my book trailer on youtube by clicking here.

Find The Memory Catcher here.

Book trailer here.  

I birthed a book.

9 months to the day of when I started this book, I have uploaded it to CreateSpace.

I gave birth to this book on its 9-month due date.

January 3 to October 3.

The irony is so perfect.

Considering I’ve been intermittent fasting for 9 months, let’s do a little comparison on how writing a book about my experience with intermittent fasting has been much like a pregnancy.

It was harder than I thought it would be, but so worth it.

It was all consuming.

In the early stages of intermittent fasting, there were times I felt like I had morning sickness.  Pivots of hunger still make me feel nauseous. 

I’ve been surrounded by people who support me.

I had to pick a name (book title).

I couldn’t have done this alone.

I prayed daily for God’s help, understanding and support.

So, here it is. 

Per my editor’s suggestion, I have a different cover. 

I love how it turned out.

You'll have to read it to understand the significance of the pinecone.  

Today and tomorrow are dedicated to one last proof-read, then it will launch. 

I posted today on facebook:

I will post the Amazon and Kindle link as soon as it is available.

Every once in a while, I have to get tough

Yesterday was the epitome of motherhood. Right after I bathed the baby, he pooped on the floor before I could get his diaper on.  We ran out of milk.  We ran out of dog food.  I lost my headphones and spent most of the morning looking for them, only to find them stuffed underneath Mayer’s pillow.  I left on my morning run frustrated about how unorganized my home is.  Contention has grown wings around here, I think in part because we are staying up way too late at night.  No one is getting enough sleep, except the baby who decided to nap from 5:00pm to 7:30pm and had no plans of falling asleep for the night. 

Mr. Bubs

This type of scenario plays itself out every few weeks in our home.  Things build up.  We get lazy.  The house gets messy, until something sparks, momma-madness strikes and things get done, whether the kids like it or not.

It had to happen.  No Christian song could cure this fever.  I was in that mood, that mood all us mom’s get in when we say, “Something’s got to change.”  I needed rock.  I needed roll.  I needed PINK and thanks to youtube, I found her edited.

There’s something about Pink that toughens me up.  

When she’s in my corner, I find my inner-punk and spunk.  

I kick dysfunction to the curb. I recognize that hard work is the answer.  I feel the passion of pushing one’s self to the brink, believing in dreams and fighting for rock-hard abs. 

Ok, I’m not too sure about my abs, but seriously, watch this video and tell me this is not the toughest thing you’ve seen an artist do.

This video makes me cry every time.  I listened to her interview on Oprah about how she felt during this performance.  It's incredible.  

About a month ago, I went out on a run and had the fever that I needed to toughen up again.  I was overwhelmed.  I was losing my voice.  I was lost in tasks and mess.  I couldn’t keep up.  I had unfinished ideas I wasn’t sure I could fix.  I faced difficult goals and had life-changing dreams breathing down my neck. Was I going for it or not?  Did I believe in myself or not?  I needed to rise above the negative self-talk.  I turned on Pink and literally ran the best run of my life.  I just didn’t want to stop.  I listened to interviews about her life and how she never stops trying.  I was inspired by her love of motherhood and her spunky little daughter, Willow. 

Somedays, it’s K-love, other days, it has to be Pink! 

It was my birthday this weekend.  Thank you to everyone for all the love.

I had a goal on this day.  Did I reach it?  Did I get my manuscript published? 

No.  My editor and I had a long meeting and after some exciting suggestions on her part, I’ve decided to take one more week and get this thing right.  Her changes are so good and I will be working the next few days to get things updated. 

Today, today I turn on Pink and get to work.

A Scene I'm Not Sure How to Write

I want to be light-hearted about this, I really do.

I want to be funny and courageous. 

Losing weight can be fun, right.

Going without food for 18 hours a day is insightful, yes. 

I can have ah-ha moments.  

I can think deep and marvel at the body God created for me.

Or, I can clean out my refrigerator.

That’s what I did yesterday. 

I lost my mind in moldy zucchini sitting in a puddle of juice in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator. 

I let the moments tick by while I watched the baby crawl towards his toys.  Inch by inch he moves his little body, lifting his knee and then pushing off with his other foot.  

Now that’s cute.  

Cute is what you get when you watch a baby crawl. 

I used to be funny and I know I’m still fun, but first, there’s something I’ve got to do.

I’m working on my memoir Starving Girl 

and I have to write a scene that’s eating me alive.

How’s that for a pun.  A starving girl has something eating her alive.  Funny, huh.

Writing this memoir, it’s now necessary to explore the path of a girl who realizes she is so much more than a victim to a gray-haired man double her age who walks with a limp and smells like cigarette smoke. 

At the ice cream store she works at, he doesn’t act much like her boss, even though he is.  

With not much experience, this girl is good at making ice cream cakes. 

The first time her boss touches her she's standing next to the back counter mixing purple frosting.  His boldness shocks the girl and she's not even certain what just happened.

“What do you think you’re doing?’ she tries to say boldly, but all she  can do is whisper.

“Whatever I want,” he says with steady eyes. 

The girl places the frosting tube down on the counter, walks to the bathroom with the cement floor and locks the door.  She looks in the mirror and her pale face stares back at her like a ghost.

For months, her boss double her age continues his game of cat and mouse; teasing, pulling, reaching, tormenting, bullying, threatening, accusing, abusing all while she earns minimum wage.

So naive is the girl, so very trusting and curious she doesn’t see the writing on the wall.  Yes, she’s frightened.  She knows what he’s doing is wrong.  She knows he’s married.  She’s told several people who are close to her of the dilemma she’s in, but no one offers help.  Do they even believe her?
 

Besides his demands, she’s all alone.

Only when the boss man’s wife is killed, hit by a drunk driver and decapitated, does he leave the girl at the ice cream shop alone.  The girl comes uninvited to the funeral, crying like a fool, wanting someone to touch her so she can feel alive but he acts like he doesn’t know her.  She becomes indivisible.  Problem is, the girl is now addicted to the horrible games of cat and mouse he’s introduced her to.  Why doesn’t her boss want her now?  Why does he abandon her?

They say "time heals all wounds."  I think the saying might be better off “time helps forget deep-rooted rotten wounds.” 

And time did help.  I did move on, but with the scars of abuse I became trapped in another and yet another scenario, almost replaying the same games over and over again with men until one day I found my voice.  I said enough.  I broke free, went on a 18-month mission for my church and returned a new girl. 

I was a woman who understood the power of Jesus Christ can heal and empower.  You see, my love for my Savior is my anchor.  He understood my pain; He healed my heart and set me free.

I was flying, finding my way and dreaming big when I found out my boss from the ice cream shop committed suicide.  Nobody knew my relationship with him, that as a young girl I had given my heart to a man who stole it from me first so when I was asked if I would be attending his funeral I numbly said “Yes.”

And this my friends is the scene I have to write for Starving Girl.

How I shook as I approached his coffin.  My skin was ice cold.

How even through all my healing; even though he was dead, I was still afraid of him.

How I looked for any evidence I could find that he did in fact shoot himself in the head.

And most importantly, how I found the strength through Jesus Christ to forgive him.

Because this journey is not about being a victim, it's about overcoming.

Since fasting, I’ve become more aware, even alert that people all throughout the world go without food every single day.

So, what got me through my first true day of fasting?

Here I am November 2015, six weeks before I started my experience with intermittent fasting.

Desperate, the answer surprised me. 

After sending the kids off to school, I cleaned up the breakfast dishes when the first wave of hunger hit.  The hunger was an earth-moving force and I gripped onto the side of my kitchen counter.  My stomach felt like a black hole and there was soreness.  The actual muscle of my stomach ached, but nothing about the hunger made me crave food. 

Soon after, the first hunger pains subsided and I carried on with my day.  Dishes, laundry, and of course taking care of the most adorable baby ever when at 2:00pm I became hungry again; hunger like I’d never felt before.  The hunger felt like a monster growling from the inside out.  The sensation frightened me.  What was I doing?  Going without food didn't seem healthy.  Something was wrong with me when in my mind I cried out to God.

“Please, I need to eat.  I can’t do this, it’s too hard.”

“Not yet,” a voice in my mind said. 

“Then when can I eat,” I asked. 

“4:00pm,” the voice answered back.  

Two more hours without food? It didn’t seem possible.  I started to feel the weight of what I was doing.  Was this even safe?  The uninvited guest of self-doubt barged into my mind, reminding me of past failures.  Was this just another time to commit myself to something regarding food only to fail later?  Something inside me nudged back, something that was battling my self-doubt and I recognized it as the spirit of God.  

It said loud and clear:

“Do not be afraid of hunger.  You need to feel this.”

I knew I needed to fast, but the commitment felt like sugar running through my fingers.  In theory, fasting was a nice concept but actually playing it out wasn’t something I could do.  I couldn’t do it in the moment, let alone for 30 days.  I was in a kitchen full of food but there was nothing I could eat.  I had every food imaginable yet there I stood starving. 

“I’m starving,” I shouted in my mind when I felt the influence of someone.  It was a girl; a hungry girl.

I searched out this painting and the era of this beautiful girl somewhat resembled what I saw in my mind.

1800 Louis Leopold Boily (French painter, 1761-1845) Young Woman Ironing

Her presence came upon me quickly and there was an urgency to her arrival.  So insistent was she on gaining my attention, I spoke out loud to her.  “I know you’re here,” I said, startled I was speaking to a spirit.  So real was she, so very present was her influence I could see every detail.  In my mind I saw a tall blonde English girl with a light blue apron tied to her thin waist and a kerchief wrapped around her mousy blonde hair.  She was poor and desperate.  She was starving and through her expression and physical appearance, I could see her pain.

She needed to tell me something, but could only do it through prayer.  “Yes, I’m going,” I said kindly to her as I rushed in my room and fell to my knees.  She wanted me on my knees.  I understood and started crying because I knew she was hungry.  She’d been hungry for a long time and my own hunger became insignificant. 

“I’m sorry,” I said to her.  “I didn’t understand what it meant to be hungry.  I didn’t understand what you went through; what you suffered for me, for my mother and grandmothers.” 
            In my mind, she was holding a bucket and stood by a well.  She was worried and weak.  There was no other option for her and in my heart; I felt she knew her fate.  She wouldn’t make it.  She’d seen loved ones die; her pain had been real and great.  I imagined for a second what it must have been like to be literally starving when in my mind I saw myself attending a wedding reception.  Wearing a tight dress, I was uncomfortable because I’d eaten too much food.  Although I was too full to eat, I’d helped myself to a second piece of wedding cake.  Using my finger, I slopped a glob of frosting onto my tongue and quickly forced it down.  I didn’t take the time to taste it and wasn’t present enough to appreciate it, but I went and took another bite anyway.  Another smudge of frosting with another subconscious swallow and I had downed the entire cake.  With the presence of this starving ancestor watching me in her desperate condition, I felt sick. 

I’d been so selfish.  I was a selfish person who for years ate food without a thought to those who went without.  I thought I understood the poor, but I didn't.  Food, no matter the quantity, time of day, or needs of others was to be put in my mouth as fast as I could get it there?  When had that happened?  Why was I stuffing myself with food when others had little or none?  I felt like a drunken king with a greasy turkey leg and a dripping glass of wine all the while demanding more food.  How many plates had I filled with food only to later throw away?  Hundreds?  Thousands?  Such a pitiful act was not right.  I had no idea how hurtful this might be to someone who was starving.  There had to be some validation for those who went without. 

I needed to feel how my ancestors felt when they were starving. They were not able to self indulge every time they had a craving.  They had to work for what they ate and they had to feel hunger pains when there wasn’t any food. The experience made me so sick at myself, the very thought of food made me dry heave.  Never had the feeling of hunger screamed so loudly at me.

The message came clear as sunlight breaking through a rain cloud.  I needed to feel hunger.  I needed to feel comfortable being hungry.  Hunger need not rule me.  I was to rule hunger.  I had more power than hunger.  More importantly, I was to deeply feel the physical symptoms of hunger; the rumbling of the stomach, the fizz in the brain, the fatigue in the bones, the mental awareness that food was not an option – I needed to feel this for those who lived with hunger, those who died hungry – even starved to death.  I could feel them all around me.  I had ancestors in my genealogical line that had lived with hunger and had died because of it. They were with me.

  A starving girl in a house full of food knows she’s not really starving, she just thinks she is.  Through fasting, the suffering of others has become very real to me.  I fast for 16 – 18 hours and then get to eat, but some people go without food and are uncertain where their next meal will come from.  

Starving sisters sitting on the pavement in the Warsaw ghetto, Poland. The small girl died after one week

The picture was taken by Heinz ., a German soldier (Wehrmacht) posted in the Warsaw area in 1941.

Going without food is a humbling experience and for me, it’s a necessary reminder to pray for the poor, give a generous fast offering (money to help feed the poor) and be humble in the blessings I’ve been given.  

No longer do I say "I'm starving."  It's sacrilegious to those who truly are suffering.  Instead I say, "I'm hungry" or "I'm ready to eat." 

Intermittent fasting and prayer is the first time in my life eating has nothing to do with losing weight or body image.  It is about praying for others and having gratitude for the blessings in my life.  It is absolutely glorious.  I sing praises to the creator of the fast, it truly is inspiring.  

Easter 2016 and I've been practicing intermittent fasting for 80+ days.