The Malleability of Memory

Malleability: the capability of being influenced or altered by external forces. —Merriam Webster online dictionary

Whenever I coach a memoir writer, before we get started, I remind them of a couple of things.

One: writing memoir can be both healing and triggering. They should expect to cry.

Two: the act of writing memoir will forever alter their memories.

Let me explain that last one.

Years ago, when I was in my early thirties, I quit my job, sold all my stuff, and went on a year-long solo journey around the world. This trip was a profound experience, and when I returned, I felt the need to write a memoir, to make sense of the journey for myself, and to encourage others to do something similar.

I had written in my journal almost every day. I had souvenirs, ticket stubs, and lots of photos. In addition, I had all the email I had sent to friends and family detailing my adventures. So, lots of supporting material.

I started at day one, and wrote forward. I quickly discovered I couldn’t cover everything. I couldn’t report conversations verbatim. I couldn’t include all the details because the document would have been thousands of pages long, and be of interest to no one. So like a potter with a lump of clay, I had to pick and choose, prune and shape, add highlight and lowlight to create a vessel with tension and interest and meaning. I never changed the truth of my experiences, but the process of writing—delving into description, trying to get the emotion on the page that I may not have fully understood until months later—fundamentally changed how I remembered my experience. The process of bringing structure and cohesion smoothed and flattened and tamed the mosaic of memory, giving it more meaning but less verisimilitude. The story no longer matched what had actually happened. The boring parts, the uneventful parts, the brief encounters and anxious moments without corresponding drama were eliminated, even though much of the journey had been composed of exactly those things.

Like a potter with a lump of clay, I had to pick and choose, prune and shape, add highlight and lowlight to create a vessel with tension and interest and meaning.

Fast forward a decade. I entered a low-residency MFA program for creative writing, this time to learn to write a novel. The program also had tracks for poetry and nonfiction, including memoir. Although I was on the fiction track, there were joint lectures and activities. One such presentation was delivered by Judith Barrington, an accomplished poet and memoirist. In the Q&A portion following her talk, I asked whether writing her memoir changed the way she remembered the events she had written about. She said yes, absolutely, and that after her book came out, in talking to the people who shared those events, she found that they had different recollections. She no longer remembered exactly what had happened. The memory in her head now matched the words on the page.

Perhaps every time we try to make sense of the events of our lives, through no fault of our own, the story changes. With age, with experience, with new knowledge, our lens changes. Details are lost to time. Yet the story is still meaningful, and sometimes still demands to be told.

Because change is inevitable, I encourage anyone who wants to write memoir to begin journaling. Write down the memories that have stuck with you. The meaningful moments, as clearly as you can recall. The details of time and setting, the echoes of emotion. Don’t think about order, or meaning. Not just yet. Do your best to capture the details of the images and impressions that have remained behind, and don’t forget to record how the experience made you feel. When you’re ready, with enough material at hand, you can start to shape and arrange your words to capture the elusive threads of meaning. But don’t be surprised when your writing begins to morph the shape of your memories.