Would-be Writers of Memoir, Beware the Pitfalls

Once my memoir Becoming Alice was published, I was asked to speak with quite a number of groups locally. I also have been interviewed for my own website and other websites. A question that has come up repeatedly was, “When did you become a writer?” Another was, “What made you decide to write your memoir?” 

I’d have to go very far back in time to tell you about the first time someone said to me, “You ought to write a book about your story.” The person who said that to me was my fifth grade teacher who asked our class to write our autobiography at the beginning of the school semester in order to get to know us better. There was no one in my classroom of second and third generation Italian kids who had anything like my own experience of escaping from Hitler’s Europe at the beginning of WWII.

My answer to my teacher was, “Perhaps I will someday.”

I didn’t know then that it would take me some seventy years to do so. In one of my prior blogs I wrote about how my grandson got me into gear. Still, I questioned my abilities to be a writer and so I took classes for over a year. My intention was to write my story well enough that my family and future ancestors would be interested in reading it.

My teacher at that time told us to get that thought straight out of our minds. She went on to talk about a student she had who had the same mind set. It was a lady from a small midwest town who wrote about her life as the wife of a very successful CEO at a large corporation. She was delegated to a second place position in the family and despite this, wrote an exceptional work about her experience: interesting,  sensitivite and with understanding. After it was published, she gifted copies to her four children. Even after several years had passed, none of them had read a word of it.

I am fortunate to know that two of my three children have read Becoming Alice. I think the third one may have skimmed it … I hope. But my point is … that it doesn’t matter. The words are there for whenever anyone, at any point in the future, has an interest in reading them. The book is there.

And how do you know that there might not be people out there outside your family who will find meaning in your words, and take pleasure in reading your story, and will identify with what you’ve said. I can tell you from personal experience that I did not anticipate what adventures would follow after Becoming Alice hit the marketplace.

If I’ve learned anything during my time as a writer, it is to let go of any self-doubts and write what you must write without thinking about who will read it, or when it will be read.

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Reed Magazine

Please note: In the Spring Edition of Reed (College) Magazine, a brief bio on page 35 of author Alice Fell Rene as a former student. On page 54, her book “Becoming Alice, A Memoir, is featured in the Reediana Section.

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Write! Just Do It

Since my book first came out almost three years ago, I’ve done a lot of events. I didn’t know how an event applied to Becoming Alice, but I soon learned that it involved my learning to address large groups of people who wanted to hear the author. My first experience as a public speaker was with a group of about sevety-five members of a literary society. I was scared to death. Being a shy person by nature, I decided to make some crib notes, hoping to bluff my way through the event. The gods must have thought otherwise, because when I got up the podium I realized I had left my notes at home. My only recourse was to just start talking and when I ran out of things to say, I read small snippets from my memoir. Looking back I know that was not the best thing to do. The session really picked up in the question and answer period when I learned that people where more interested in me , why I wrote the book, how did I learn to write the book, how did I get the book published, etc. Obviously, they can figure out for themselves what the book is about by reading the back cover. They can also read the book for themselves. They didn’t need me to read to them.

Lesson learned. At all subsequent events, I simply speak to them as if I were in my living room telling them about the newest and most exciting adventure in my life.  Often they tell me they want to write their own stories. My answer is, just do it.

I’d never considered myself a writer, especially since English is not my mother tongue. Going through school I got good grades thinking that I answered the questions properly, but not because I was particularly eloquent. Then something happened to turn my life in another direction.

My grandson was in high school and was given an assignment to chose an occurance that happened in the twentieth century that changed the course of history. The assignment had to include an interview with a person familiar with that subject. He chose the Holocaust and asked to interview me. That was a surprise to me. Of course, everyone in my family had known that I was born in Vienna, but I never spoke much about that time, or what happened.

My son-in-law brought my grandson to my house, along with his golf clubs, intending to hit some balls while I was being interviewed. I’m sure he thought, what could be more boring than to hear your mother-in-law speak about her childhood?

The interview started  before he could escape out the door and it so happened that he never did go out to hit balls. His comment to my daughter was that my story was so interesting that he decided not to go to the golf course altogether.

After they left, I thought perhaps my story might be interesting to a wider audience, at least all the other members of my family. I decided to write it down. I only needed to convince myself that I could write. I am here today to tell you that anybody can write. Just do it!

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Post Traumatic Stress in Childhood

We’ve all learned about the post-traumatic stress syndrome. Usually it is associated with the military, that is with soldiers who have experienced such horrors that when they return home so damged, they are unable to function normally. If they are lucky, they are diagnosed and they may get psychiatric help with their condition.

Recently I came across an article on the web that used the terms “post traumatic stress in childhood.” I was so intrigued by that topic that I read most of the material written about it. I came to the conclusion that I should have used that term as a subtitle for my memoir, Becoming Alice. Unfortunately my book went into publication before I had ever heard this term, and I ended up using A Memoir instead. I thought that since Frank McCourt used that subtitle for his wonderful book, Angela’s Ashes, it was good enough for my book.

After reading the material on two sites, www.thedoctorwillseeyounow.com/content/art1964.html and also http://www.focuasas.com/PTSD.html, I realized that the disorder applied to me during my childhood and adolescent years. I was appalled to learn that in the US 16% of women (approx. 40 million) suffer some abuse in childhood before their 18th birthday. That abuse usually is in the form of rape or some other types of molestation, although it can be attributed to such things as emotional abuse, car accidents, etc. Symptoms include nightmares, flashbacks, impaired memory, social impairment, etc.

This information led me to conclude that I, as a child and adolescent, did suffer a form of PTSD. My trauma was not sexual abuse or a car accident, it was the fear of persecution and annialation by the Nazi regime in WWII. I did not understand it fully, but I saw what that threat did to my Jewish parents ,and I saw how it effected them for the two years we were stopped in Latvia with Hitler breathing down our heels . This fear filtered down me.

The above-mentioned articles listed the symptoms children with PTSD have. Among them are nightmares, flashbacks, impaired memory, social impairment, etc. If you recall the description in Becoming Alice of my reactions to seeing a Frankenstein movie and my terror at the swimming pool, you’d agree they were abnormal. Later on, my inability to function on my own in Los Angeles was symptomatic. And of course the social impairment described during the entire childhood and adolescent years not normal.

The articles point out that parents play a vital role in helping these children to heal from their trauma. In my case, my parents were so overburdened with their own problems, that they were not available to help me. I also think that at that time in history, most parents were not sopohisticated enough to understand that they should be concerned with their children’s problems.

I don’t know entirely how I took myself in hand and consciously tried to heal myself. A young girl who attended one of my presentations came up to me at the end of my session and asked me the same question, because she felt she shared some of my problems. I told her to read my book. I speak in detail about what I consciously decided to do and how I went about “becoming the Alice” that I am today.

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For Your Information

WriterAdvice seeks flash fiction, memoir, and creative non-fiction that mesmerizes the reader in 750 words or less. DEADLINE: April 15, 2010. Entry fee: $10 per submission. First prize: $150. Former prizewinners are the judges. Complete guidelines, mailing address, and prizes at http://www.writeradvice.com

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Automatic Love

I love dogs. Actually I love all animals, even the wild ones in Africa who kill prey in the most violent, horrible ways possible. But then they do have to eat and they do provide and protect their young. I can accept all that goes with the “survival of the fittest” and the balance that needs to be maintained in nature for all the species to survive. I should add that I don’t “love” snakes and reptiles and fish, although I can appreciate their beauty and the necessity of their existance in the survival chain for all species.

I also know there are many people who do not love dogs or cats, or any animal. That’s fine with me. But it led me to think about us human beings. Do all mothers and fathers automatically love their children? Unfortunately not. We have fathers who not only abandon their offspring and mates, but sometimes even abuse them. We have mothers who do the same thing. Although I’d like to think that happens in smaller numbers.

My cat purred the entire time she was in labor, delivering her four kittens. She purred when she nursed them, she protected them from any strangers and expressed her love for them by licking them whenever they were near. I thought that beautiful, natural, instinctual love was automatic with mothers of all living things.

However, I know of parents who seem to love one child and not another. Sometimes it is more love for one child, less for the other. What makes the difference? In Becoming Alice I wrote that I thought my mother preferred my brother over me, fully knowing that I was my father’s favorite. In later years, after my brother and I were in mid-life, the equation changed. My mother was disappointed by the relationship that evolved with my brother after his marriage. Her feelings for him diminished and grew for me. Perhaps the depth of feeling for your children is not automatic and genetic. Perhaps love is based on some other qualities, such as the physical appearance of the child, the sex of the child, the intelligence of the child, the nature ( dominant/submissive) of the child, etc. If all that comes into play, then love is not automatic and a newborn baby has to be pretty lucky to have the qualities necessary for his/her parents to be able to love him with all their heart.

The same thing goes for a man and a woman. It has been said, “I fell in love with her the minute I met her.” Another has said, “The more I saw of him and the more I got to know him, the more I grew to love him.” So many qualities come into play in the love beween man and woman, it couldn’t posibly be automatic. In fact it is quite a wonder that love happens at all. Those of us that can love are the luckiest of all!

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About My Funeral

Aunt Miriam died yesterday. She was 100 years and six months old. One usually doesn’t count a half year but I remember an uncle of mine saying that people over seventy change yearly as much as a child under six changes every year. In those perameters, the changes are enormous. Maybe. Aunt Miriam seemed to be pretty much the same between the years seventy-five and ninety-five. She spent most of them in an assisted living facility and later in a nursing home. It wasn’t until the last year or so that she began failing. A pretty good run, I’d say. Since she had no children, it has fallen to my husband Bob to make arrangements for her burial. I know the Rabbi will want to know about her life so that he can make the appropriate remarks at the gravesite. That is what brings me to wonder what will be said.

I am reminded about being in a Rabbi’s study about a decade ago when Aunt Miriam’s sister died and we were called upon to tell him about her life. My husband and I  sat in our chairs and looked at one another trying to find something to say. We couldn’t think of anything that set her apart , some characteristic that made her unique, some interest she had that enhanced her life or one in which she could give to others. We could only say she was a “good and nice” person. She took care of her family and performed a homemaker’s tasks. Perhaps that is enough. In Aunt Miriam’s case we could add that she gave music lessons to children and worked to raise funds for the City of Hope. I liked that about her.

And then there was that other funeral I attended many years ago for an aunt of mine who was generally disliked by everyone who knew her. the Rabbi who spoke at her funeral didn’t know the first thing about her. However he eulogized her in glowing terms: “And now we lay to rest this noble soul, etc. etc.” It was then that my cousin looked at me and said, “Are we at the right funeral?”

All this makes me wonder what will be said at my funeral. I’d like to think they will be able to say more than that I was “nice” and I “played the piano.” I certainly hope that the attendants to my departure will not wonder if they are at the right funeral if anything complimentary is said. But then, I wouldn’t know about it anyway.

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You Do It!

I love being with my granddaughter Emma any time but I especially enjoyed her when she was about five or six years old. The whole world was new and exciting for her and she was learning skills as fast as they came her way. When I was with her, no matter what I was doing, stirring gravy in a saucepan, planting marigolds in the yard, or buttoning her sweater for her, she’d shout, “I do it!” She’d push me away, her eyebrows drawn together on her forehead, with a determination to succeed that I wished would be there for a lifetime. She’s outgrown that phase now that she’s eleven. Yet, when the phone rings, she’ll snap to attention and shout, “I’ll get it!” Of course, I do understand that most of the time that call is from one of her friends who will end up talking to her for an hour.

Now imagine that my husband Bob and I are not visiting Emma who lives clear across the country in Connectiut, and we are alone watching TV in our house in California. The phone rings and we both say in unison, “You get it!” This happens more often than not: Bob will tell me we need to buy dog food at the pet store. I’ll respond, “You need to get it. Here’s the five dollar coupon for the pet store.” Or I’ll mention to Bob that we are out of orange juice for breakfast and he’ll say, “Pick it up when you do the grocery shopping.” If I say to Bob that perhaps we should call our friends the Jones (ficticious name) to see if Linda (ficticious name) is over her flu, he’ll reply, “You do it. You know them better than me.”

It reminds me so much of how it was in my home when I was a little girl. My dad always made my mom do all the telephoning. If the phone rang in the kitchen and he was standing right next to it, he still would call my mother, who may have been gardening in the farthest part of our yard from the house, to come answer the phone. One of the reasons for this was that he did not like patients to call him at home unless it was an emergency. It was up to my mom, who didn’t even have nurses training, to determine whether or not it was a medical emergency. I cannot count the number of arguments they had when she didn’t guess right.

If you’ve read my memoir, Becoming Alice, and had gotten to know my dad’s character, you would not be surprised to know that his order of “You do it!” was consistant with his behavior both at home and at the hospital in which he worked. It allowed him to feel superior to all others. He even carried this approach over to non-medical things. For example, he refused to carry any packages anywhere, no matter the circumstances. It was not unusual to see them walking down the street side by side with my mother carrying two heavy shopping bags, while he used both his free hands to light a cigarette. This happened often while they owned their grocery store, had no car, and needed to walk from the store to our apartment.

I must remember the next time the phone rings in my house to jump to my feet and answer the phone without saying, “Bob, can you get that?”

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Murphy’s Law

I remember when I was a little girl, my mother said, “When things are going really well, and you are as happy as you can possibly be, watch out! Something bad will happen. The pendulum has got to switch from one side to the other in this life. If everything always went perfectly well, and you were always happy, you would be in paradise. And there is no paradise on this earth. So, you better not ever let yourself get too happy.”

I never thought much about her advise. Things happen in life and my way of living it is to accept whatever is thrown at you, digest it, and keep on going. My philosophy about life worked pretty well for me until a couple of weeks ago when my mother’s warnings came back to haunt me. You see, my youngest daughter who had been divorced for six years, after spending twenty years in a bad relationship, remarried. She had found a genuine “nice guy” who seems to appreciate her for who she is and loves her. My daughter feels the same way. The wedding was beautiful. The entire families on both sides were there. The day was warm with the sun shining on all celebrants. The happiness quotient was at its maximum.

“Watch out!” I heard my mother’s words in my head but went on about my business. Several days later I walked into my bedroom and found one corner of it flooded. I checked the other bedroom. The adjoining closet was flooded. The plaster walls in the area were wet. The carpeting was stained. We discovered that the water softener tank immediately outside the bedroom wall had been leaking for several days and in our absence (while we attended the wedding), the water came into our house. The water softener company was called, the “restorers” arrived with two huge fans and two humidifiers , one for each bedroom. They were set up to run for three days and nights. Each bedroom sounded like a 747 airplane was taking off a runway. With nowhere to sleep except on a small bed in a guest room, my husband and I spent three sleepless nights with the noice of two airplanes inside our house. My mother’s voice returned: “Something will happen.”

A day later, my husband and I purchased some storage units for our garage. We were told they were on sale that weekend, for only two days, at 25% off. What a bargain. We wasted no time in  ordering 4 units of varying sizes, to be assembled and delivered in a few days, between 11 am and 3 pm. At 3:30 pm I call the store, “What happened to my storage units?” I’m told the delivery truck broke down and they are sending another to pick up the items and bring them to our house. At 4:30 pm they are stuck a block away from our house, unable to drive their truck under an iron arch over the street to our house. The delivery men, very pleasant and apologetic prodeed to wheel the  units, almost a full block in distance to our house, only to find out that they have brought the wrong units.

My carpets are still stained. The floor boards are damaged beyond repair. We don’t have any of the storage units we purchsed. And it is going to rain for the entire week. My mother’s voice comes back again: “Don’t get too happy. Something will happen!”

If you’d read Becoming Alice, my memoir, you’d know that my mom was a German speaking Viennese lady and couldn’t possibly have know about Murphy’s law. I think Murphy must surely have been Irish.

I poured myself a glass of wine and heard my husband say, “I knew they wouldn’t get this order right.” I didn’t think they would get it wrong. It didn’t seem to require an advanced degree in Business Management to fill this order and transport it to our address. In retrospect, what I had forgotten was that I had been too happy at my daughters wedding.

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Postscript to Nice or Nasty

Nasty worked. I received my sales report.

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