You know how some people are really good at giving gifts? How they somehow nail it every time? This unique skill combines an attention to detail with the ability to come outside of oneself. Giving a good gift also requires some intuition and confidence, i.e. I know what this recipient will enjoy. It also might just take…practice.
The memoir genre has often been called “solipsistic” or “self-centered” or (most-annoyingly) “navel-gazing,” but what I’ve learned as the reader and writer of memoir is that a personal narrative can actually be the ultimate gift. I don’t mean this literally as a holiday gift (but sure, that too). Here, the memoirist says, I present to you this story I have created with my whole heart in the hopes that my experiences will speak to your heart, too.
But this is not a straightforward process: When writing memoir and personal essays, the self-doubt can become overwhelming. We repeatedly wonder why we’re putting ourselves through the vulnerable and often painful excavation of the past, when old traumas and wounds threaten any stability we’ve managed to achieve. At this common inflection point, fellow memoirists and essayists gather ‘round in living rooms, in online threads, in a multitude of craft books to reiterate exactly what we’ve all experienced as readers but need constant reminding as writers: that sharing lived experiences can create powerful connection and make the world a smaller place. Isn’t it worth it, we ask each other, if our specific story can make even one reader feel less alone in their pain? With this simple guiding question, most of us can re-open our laptops or our notebooks to begin once again or doggedly pick up where we left off.
All of this said, it isn’t necessary or even wise to think too much about the reading public when first drafting a memoir or essay. Doing so can increase the stakes and create too much pressure. It can also render the process less organic and overly focused on the end product. This is what self-help or business books are for. The revision stage can be the more effective time to consider your work from the outside.
When I was drafting my memoir, Motion Dazzle: A Memoir of Motherhood, Loss, and Skating on Thin Ice, I was carrying so much publishing industry baggage and heartbreak that I had to pretend what I was typing so feverishly every night was not a book, no no no, but a letter to my son. In those early days, it was a gift to him, so that he could understand the complicated circumstances surrounding his birth and get to know my mother, who passed away on his first birthday, the day I was hosting a zebra-themed party for him. It was also a way to help him get to know me more and why I made the decisions I made during that challenging time. I filled my pages with as much sensory and psychological detail as possible, to share these memories and feelings fully.
Predictably, by the time I completed the first draft, my lifelong publishing dreams kicked in again. After all those hours of pouring my heart onto the screen one sentence at a time, I knew I wanted my words to be in the world.
I therefore needed to reconsider my manuscript from a general reader’s perspective, to see my intimate and specific story from the outside. I wanted to connect my narrative to more universal themes, and to think about what readers might learn from my mistakes and triumphs.
The first decision I made was to dial back the “directed you,” or epistolary aspect, instead directing only discreet parts (the zebra party sections starting each chapter) to my son. This allowed me to maintain some of that original intimacy, but also to invite readers in with a standard first-person narration.
In the course of the next few years and at least 14 drafts, I proceeded to take myself through a series of exercises cobbled together from several online courses, craft essays, craft books, and friendly advice. Each of the following recommendations helped me to see my story from varying angles and imagine how it might be received. I offer these methods for you to consider as well:





