Tuesday Scribblings

The October 10th edition of thoughts & commentary on seemingly random things

Back story: a few weeks ago, I started Tuesday Scribblings, a regular post for the thoughts & commentary on the personal, regional, and global events and stories that are rattling around in my brain. Paid subscribers get access to more personal stories at the end of the post.

Over the weekend I watched the Orioles ALDS games with HM*. Somehow during the final innings of Game 1, the subject of Prince Harry came up. HM went on a rant about how Harry claimed to want privacy yet wrote a memoir, got a Netflix show and a podcast, bought a big house. He talked about how all memoir is whiny and written by privileged people, then added, “if you want to write a memoir, okay, but keep it to yourself—don’t publish it.” I told him that in my memoir, I’d be sure to add a special note to him in the Acknowledgements that said “fuck you”, and that I’d include a special index for the whiny parts. We laughed a lot about this, but yesterday I shared his comments with a group of writers I know, many of whom write memoir and personal essays, and it started a conversation about why these genres are often sneered at.

I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a pencil. I’ve written everything from poetry to magazine articles; flash fiction to promotional copy. I know many writers who write in a variety of styles and genres. I am fascinated by the stories they share, whether it’s fiction or memoir. And even if I don’t read everything my writer friends publish, I support their work as much as possible, because we’re all out here doing what we love and seeking an audience that loves our writing and wants to read our work.

Two years ago on Substack, I revised my novel The Girl from Galax chapter by chapter, releasing a new chapter every week. I made the serialized novel available for free to a select group of people who had contributed to a 2012 crowdfunding campaign, and allowed others to purchase subscriptions. At times I was surprised to see who paid for a subscription, or who had the highest open rates while the book chapters were available. While I admit I would love to be adored by all who read my work, whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, I know that’s unrealistic.

I don’t know that I’ve ever believed a genre as a whole is unworthy of publication, and there are some genres out there that strike me as odd, but I wouldn’t say they are a waste of time. Someone enjoys writing and reading them, and that’s great. I don’t have to be a fan for them to exist.

I wonder if the folks who believe memoir and personal essay are whiny genres are saying this because at some point in their lives they were made to feel like their story didn’t matter. That no one cares—or will ever care—about their experiences and feelings. That they aren’t allowed to share their stories at all, whether it’s with the world at large or a select group of people.

Or maybe these memoir-haters are so private that it’s unsettling to read content in which the writer lays themselves bare on the page. Maybe an essay about losing a child or dealing with a mental health crisis makes them cringe and shy away. Even if the personal stories aren’t a shared experience, maybe their discomfort over reading an account of someone’s emotionally traumatic event is a reflection of their unwillingness to be so raw and vulnerable.

In either case, I feel for these anti-memoir people. Changing their mind isn’t worth the effort. Years ago I wrote an essay on an old blog about my experiences growing up in an evangelical Christian community and attending their schools. A family member shared the piece with others, praising my writing and saying it reflected their own experience. One of their friends said…