AKA and the Hesitant Memoirist

Also Known As is not jargon limited to law enforcement. Many writers prefer to use a pen name, particularly if they wish to conceal their true identity. Protecting one’s privacy (not to mention dignity) is a strong motivator.

Occasionally, it’s a way to test the waters, to see if one’s writing is strong and effective when not tied to previous publishing success (J.K. Rowling writing under the name Robert Galbraith).

Some authors assume a gender specific name in the belief it will enhance their credibility or sales (Bronte sisters: Charlotte was “Currer Bell.” Emily was “Ellis Bell.” Anne was “Acton Bell”).

Sometimes, the birth name and the writing pseudonym are interchangeably (MarkTwain: Samuel Clemens). Occasionally, an author uses more than one name; for example, the mystery writer Ruth Rendell also published as Barbara Vine. Then there are names that just sound better, or easier to remember: Allen Stewart Konigsberg just doesn’t cut it like Woody Allen does.

Adopting a pen name can be useful when writing in a different genre–particularly if the new genre is frivolous or erotic?  It’s a way to have fun and still preserve your reputation with your “serious” audience. It may also be a way to protect your day job–the one that really pays the bills.

And then, there is the Hesitant Memoirist.

I’ve started a memoir a half dozen times; I’ve stopped a half dozen times. I suspect that most people, with a few decades behind them, have a “past” that might surprise those nearest or dearest to them. I find that there are incidents I’m not eager to share with my offspring.  Things I am embarrassed by, or at least consider an assault on my intelligence and self-esteem.

Many of us have asked ourselves, “How could I have been so (insert any word that applies)?”

Often, in looking back on our youthful decisions, we wonder why we made those choices; what strength or weakness in our character prompted us to act as we did. Were we given too much love or too little?  Were we raised by a struggling family with little money, or were we indulged? Were we looking for an equal in a relationship, or were we looking for an individual that would take care of us and protect us from the world? Were we victims of our own insecurities?

To answer these questions honestly, to take off the blinders and write a memoir candidly and objectively, is tantamount to running the Boston Marathon naked. And that’s just us; we may also be stripping others down to their underwear, even if we change names. But that creates another problem; when we try to protect others, we often misrepresent facts. Perhaps all memoirs are partially fiction, intentional or otherwise. Memory, after all, is slippery and can become distorted for a variety of reasons–not the least of which is self-protection.

I began a memoir ten years ago, but quickly realized that it was really about my parents and the first sixteen years of their marriage, so I changed to 3rd person and told their story. It will be published sometime this year, under the title A Chance of Today. That still leaves my own memoir hanging. Each time I’ve begun writing, I’ve hesitated and put it aside. I now realize that I need to find answers to specific questions. I’m not alone.

Many people I’ve talked with, who are in mid-life or later, have voiced a desire to write a memoir. Their reasons are varied, but the questions remain the same:

1) Why am I doing this?
2) Do I use my real name?
3) Do I change the names of others? Locations?
4) Will anyone be damaged, angered, distressed, or shocked by what I write?
5) Am I including anything that would slander or libel another? (We live in a litigious society.)
6) How candid am I willing to be? Is there any advantage to revealing closely held secrets?
7) Have I really fact checked myself?

I’ve developed some guidelines that I plan to follow; perhaps they will be helpful to you if you are contemplating your life’s story.

It seems that #1 is the only one we need to answer before beginning. If our “why” is for family, then our relationship with the members of our family will dictate the content of what we write. We need to consider values, beliefs, and family dynamics. Leaving revenge or ill-feelings out of the equation (never a good idea in a memoir), how do you want your family to see you–and how do you want them to see themselves through your eyes?

If you are writing your memoir because your lifelong endeavor has been to create, organize, or foster a philosophy, religion, movement, or institution, then your accomplishments and that of others will determine much of the content. Perhaps you were a volunteer in the Peace Corps and want to write your experiences (good and bad). Sharing your knowledge can be a valuable contribution.

On the other hand, if you are writing to publish, then you have to consider the appetite of the reading public. In 2016, not much is private or off-limits. I’ve read some astoundingly frank blogs lately, as well as browsed some memoirs that leave nothing to the imagination. But, the blogs have large followers, and the books are selling well. The question is how willing you are to expose yourself–or others? Are you prepared for the consequences? Is a best seller or a good review worth it?

Many candid memoirs are not harmful to a person’s dignity or reputation, but some can be. Consider what you want to reveal to colleagues, family, and friends. Younger family members often cannot comprehend that their parents were ever sexual, emotional beings–and they don’t want to be reminded.

Once you figure out the “why” of your memoir, it is easier to determine numbers 2 through 6.
If publication (and hopefully success) is the goal, and you are writing a “tell all,” then a pseudonym may be in order. Name changes (including locality) is also a safeguard. After all, most readers don’t care if you grew up in Kearny, Nebraska or Knoxville, Tennessee. It’s what happened to you that keeps them turning pages.

Number 7 is mainly to make sure you have names, dates, and events properly cited. Have you ever been enjoying a book, then had a “something’s off here,” moment and had to leaf back through the pages to try to sort it out? If so, you know how frustrating it can be. Spare your readers the aggravation.

It is easy to get chronology confused; you might remember a public event–at which you were present–taking place in 1988, but if it was 1987 or 1989, a reader who attended the same event will surely note it and doubt the veracity of your work. In all of my writing, fiction and nonfiction, I’ve learned to keep a separate document where I either outline names and dates before writing, or I update as I go along–usually both. It keeps me from making a number of errors, particularly in a longer work.

And my memoir? I’m still dwelling on number one. Maybe after writing a few more sample introductions, I’ll get it figured out.


Last Thursday, I began writing my next blog–a discussion about the hard decisions a writer has to make when committing to a memoir. How do we protect our dignity yet still tell the truth–or at least keep the fictionalized version to a minimum?  I’ll  post that soon, but in the meantime, a complaint about distraction (or why that blog still isn’t finished).

Everything about a warmer clime calls to me right now. First, you have to know that for the past ten years, we’ve lived in a rural setting; our house sits on a hill eleven miles from the closest town. Living out here was fun, initially, but circumstances change with professional demands.

On Friday morning, the weather reports were dire: freezing temperatures, snow accumulation, hazardous roads. Not different from what other areas were experiencing, but a bit more worrisome here, since we are serviced by a twisting, county road that doesn’t get first priority for plowing or sanding. Snowed in really means just that.

In keeping with Murphy’s Law, about 2 hours after my partner left last Friday (with his band for an out-of-state gig), the power went off while I was outside sweeping snow off the steps and cars. Naturally, I called the power company, since there is a fuse that goes out about once a month at a small church located a quarter of mile from here. Usually they fix it and we’re good until the next squirrel or bird attacks that particular fuse box.

Thirty minutes later, two really huge power trucks (the kind with pole rigs) show up in my driveway (digging a significant rut) and two burly guys get out and investigate the outside fuse box, the transformer on the pole, etc. They conclude it might be in the inside breaker box. They hesitate to come in because their boots are snowy/muddy.

I point out to them that this is an all-electric house; I will be alone here three days; the pipes will likely freeze; I have a damn cat that I can’t haul into a hotel in town; thus, my floors and their boots are at the bottom of my priorities. Just get the bloody power back on.  I knew where the new power box was, but it didn’t have a main switch so there must be another one. I call my partner on his cell and, although he was somewhere between Nashville and Chattanooga by then, in a van with noisy musicians, he heard his phone and, miraculously, answered.

With my new knowledge, I lead “Muddy Boots” into my resident musician’s room and prepare to find the electric box in his closet. But first I have to unload it because he uses the closet in the other bedroom for clothes and this one is stacked with music shit. Okay, we find the box, the main switch has tripped, “Muddy Boots” restores it and I have power, but he warns me the switch is old and can “go at any time,” to which, showing remarkable restraint, I say, “Okay” instead of “Simply fxxxing lovely.”

So far, the power is on and my floors are mopped clean. I’ll get to that other blog yet.