I first read about the hermit crab in Barbara Kingsolver’s essay collection, High Tide in Tucson. In this true story about a stowaway crustacean, Kingsolver creates a lively lyrical first person narrative, in which the crab becomes a metaphor for how creatures habituate to their environments.
Indeed, the hermit crab makes good metaphor. When you feel cramped, find a new shell to call home. Keep your plump red underbelly undercover. Adapt.
Turns out the hermit crab is also a trendy form for writing personal narrative. With that knowledge, I recently assigned a hermit crab essay as a writing prompt—Find a shell to inspire an essay. Choose a mundane form such as a recipe, medication insert, table of contents, book review, application, to-do list. The writers received the instructions, awkwardly. Two performed the exercise. Four participants opted out—a benefit of being an adult paying your own way. I cannot blame them. In fact, I had been a hypocrite. How can an instructor rightly assign something she’s never tried? I have happily composed segmented, epistolary (letter) and acrostic (A-B-C) essays, but never the hermit crab. So, I immersed myself in this form.
The first thing I read was an essay, a multiple-choice list framed by 11 questions, titled, “Can This Troubled Marriage be Saved?” by writer Nancy McCabe (a faculty member at of Louisville’s Spalding MFA program) published in the Bellingham Review (2011). The form enabled the writer to condense the life of a marriage into a relatively short narrative. And it was a fun read!
The hermit crab essay is a term coined by writer Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, authors of the creative nonfiction craft book, Tell it Slant . Miller writes about the hermit crab essay in, “The Shared Space Between Reader and Writer: A Case Study,” in the Brevity on-line journal. It’s one of the many forms she advocates. Her rationale? By writing in different forms you discover a new voice and content. Miller’s own experience is this: “I feel a kind of transformation happening, a new perspective, a moment of forgiveness. It’s odd to feel this in one’s writing, to feel so concretely that the essay is, indeed, in charge: speaking to you, telling you things you didn’t already know.”
I am fond of one familiar form—the To Do list. I often create to-do lists in the middle-of-the night, so I can go back to sleep. I record each item with my purple Pentel. Only then can I know the task will be completed. I appreciate the concise commanding second-person active voice of each item, as in “Pay parking ticket.”
Let me illustrate. I have composed a short hermit crab essay based on one of my compulsions—The to-do list:
Water plants
(especially the gift cactus from your daughter, the one she described as “easy care,” the one whose draped succulent braids she discovered crumbling at her touch, like an ancient manuscript poorly handled.)
Write in your journal
(admit it, you do not journal. This is your secret. You are a fraud, posing as a writer. You really should try. Journaling is good for you, like kale, liver, kombacha and prayer.)
Adjust your attitude
(Find patience with your retired husband when he says he’s out of socks or wants to know what is for dinner. Avoid grumbling,”I’m not the laundress, cook and bottle washer around here.” Kindly inform him where he can find the laundry soap and hot dogs. Ask him to meet you for lunch.)
Start your next essay
(but wait . . . you haven’t started anything new for months. You’re stuck on revisions. When will you finish that Ancestry essay? You have thought of writing a piece titled, “On Prayer,” as in “Please forgive me, but I refuse to pray for Facebook requests.” You send “prayerful thoughts” instead. Admit it. You have a complicated feelings about prayer, as with journaling, which is—actually—a form of prayer. Come to think of it, you have wondered about structuring something on the Act of Contrition, including your favorite line, “Forgive me . .. for what I have done and what I have failed to do.”)
In my brief attempt at the hermit crab essay, I experienced what author Brenda Miller described. I had no idea what I was going to say. until I said it. Content followed form. The process was liberating. And I did stowaway a few nuggets for a future essay.
Write With Us!
A man at a party praised my husband for his determination to read all three volumes of Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past — a literary tome, which “[in]several thousand pages, retraces the course of [the Frenchman’s] adolescence and adulthood, democratically dividing his experiences among the narrator and a sprawling cast of characters.”
“Remembrance of Things Past is a monument of literature,” the man said.
Unlike my tenacious husband, most of us have not read Proust, though many know of his Madeleine sponge cake, referred to by a legion of readers, including this writer who admits she has not read the first page of Proust’s factional account of meals and musings, memories and wisdom; a pity, since it includes great plums for memoir, such as—“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”
The challenge of personal truth is a topic we often discuss in workshops. In fact, while researching this brief essay linking the famous sponge cake to monuments and memoir/essay, I discovered a factoid: In his first drafts, Proust had used toast and honey, then biscotti as his evocative foods, finally arriving at the now-immortal Madeleine.
A monument, as described by Wikipedia, is “created to commemorate a person or event . . . [or] part of [the] remembrance of historic times or cultural heritage.” As it is with personal narrative.
Writers choose to scribe memories for differing reasons—to be part of a writing community, to hone skills for publication, to create true stories for posterity. Most wish that their true stories will capture life events as well as their unique ways of looking at the world. As with the bronze monument, personal narratives commemorate a life, which will ultimately become historical and cultural accounts.
Our recent American narrative involves removal of certain monuments—all of their protagonists sculptors portrayed as heroic. The problem with heroes is that they are one-dimensional and cannot withstand a closer examination; heroes too easily fall off their pedestals, figuratively if not literally. As it is with memoir and personal narrative. In our stories, we should not be the hero or the villain, but a real person with secrets, bad habits, prejudices.
My favorite monuments (and memoirs) tell a story, show narrative motion, and offer the audience room for interpretation. All beckon the viewer to linger.
Of course, it helps if we can find our own personal Madeleine. Some food for thought. As Proust wrote,— “when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, . . . the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”
Ordinary people write what is commonly referred to as the “nobody memoir.” We lack the plot line of celebrity. No rags turned to riches. No lonely child turned superstar. We are still working on the arcs of our plots. Neither famous nor infamous, the typical “nobody memoirist” describes the most intense incidents of a lifetime. Drama emerges from adventure, adversity, angst, or abuse. The protagonist climbs a mountain or rows an ocean, walks a thousand miles on a treacherous seaside trail, confronts an abusive past, recounts her recovery from rape, and exposes a dysfunctional family.
Popular memoirs dig deep into the wounded psyche. Triumphant narrators emerge, healed by the crucible of experience. This creates a problem for writers whose lives are deprived of high-stakes adventure, poverty, or trauma.
My first experience with the dilemma of happiness was in a college social work internship when my supervisor observed, “You can’t fully understand your clients because you’ve never been poor.” Just as I once questioned my ability to be an empathic social worker, I now ponder my ability to write an engaging memoir about a happy childhood. Several questions emerge— What is happiness, exactly? Did I really have a happy childhood? Is it possible to write an engaging memoir about a happy childhood?
An Internet search of synonyms commonly associated with the word “happy,” results in cheerful, merry, gleeful, delighted, and felicitous. None of these words describe my childhood. So, I thumb the pages of the Oxford English Dictionary (aka OED). My condensed two-volume tome sits haughtily on its altar in my writing studio. The OED needs not share space with my other books —the essays, poetry, fiction, and memoir. It is the root; they are the branches. As it turns out, “happiness,” is not exactly what I have always imagined. The word has as its root the Middle English word, “hap,” meaning luck or fortune. This is a revelation.
While pondering “happy,” I remember a scene. Our family had been traveling for hours when my younger daughter discovered the true meaning of happiness. At seven years old, bored by car travel, Liz sang loudly, a spontaneous lyric of her invention—I’m hap-hap-happy to be myself. I make my life enjoyable. Succinctly, as is her habit, Lizzie happened upon two facts. She sang the root of happiness, “hap,” without consulting a dictionary. And she stated, with lyrical authority, that you make your own happiness.
If you consider the original definition of its root, “happy” does not describe pleasure or merriment. Many life events occur by happenstance. People are often hapless. Stuff happens. My fortunate birth was a chance event, a happenstance. I am the lucky offspring of educated parents who loved me, and offered ample food, safe shelter and experiences that nurtured my curiosity, as well as a cache of clichés. Our father coached us to keep stiff upper lips and chins held high. When times got tough, the tough got going, because hard times build character. We smiled and the world smiled with us.
I am surprised to discover that the root of the word “travel,” is the French “travails.” Indeed. Our travels (aka as moves) ensured a few travails—
“You’re going to love living in Germany. It’ll be a great adventure.” My mother writes long letters to home on tissue-paper thin blue Air Mail stationery. “We’re moving to England!” Brit kids call me a “rich American,” which is only half correct. “You need to put that child on a diet,” the doctor says. Mom refuses. “You’re just pleasingly plump.” “We’re moving to Memphis, Tennessee!” The children laugh at my British accent. They call me Butterball and Lardo.“There is nothing wrong with her. You worry too much.” Mom and Dad can’t ignore the convulsions. “You’ve got to enroll that child in special education gym classes,” says the doctor. My mother refuses. “You are perfectly normal,” she says. “We’re moving to Chicago!” I hear Elvis sing, “In the Ghetto,” and my grief quickens. The Yankee teenagers laugh at my Southern accent. They call me “Southern Fried Chicken” By choice, I lose weight. By happenstance, I grow out of epilepsy, 12 years after the initial convulsion. By circumstance, I have become the adaptable me who has no hometown, craves wings for travel, and roots for a place called ‘home.’
What can I learn from this? No childhood lacks misfortune. The experience of happiness does not mirror the events of a life. Trouble—the stuff of storytelling— comes in many forms.
Recently, I read Dandelion Wine, autobiographical fiction by the late Ray Bradbury. It was his favorite book, years in the making— a process he describes in the introduction. “Along the way, I sat down to breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with the long-dead and much-loved. For I was a boy who did indeed love his parents and grandparents and his brother.” Indeed, a happy child with loving parents.
I remain a “nobody memoirist”—a situation I am unlikely to resolve. Yet, I am encouraged. Bradbury’s autobiographical novel and other memoirs prove that one can write engagingly about a generally “happy” childhood.
Note to Readers: Alas, my experience with occasional misfortune does not release me from the real trick of memoir—the writing itself. So many elements of the craft must converge. A cogent story that pulls the reader into the narrative is important. The use of language is important. Details and vivid scenes are important. Complex characters and graceful structure are important. But, what truly engages the reader is the authenticity of the author’s retelling and the unsentimental affection for the characters. The best memoirs communicate the sense that writers enjoy telling their stories. This reminds me of something a chef once told me. “You must love the cooking,” he said. “If you are angry when you cook, people will feel the anger. If you love the cooking, people will feel the love.”
Love your life and the writing process. Be yourself. Enjoy.
Here is how I remember the scene—My nine-year-old daughter has fashioned a muslin prairie bonnet, the kind Laura Ingalls Wilder would have worn. She will dress as a pioneer for the school Thanksgiving program, where teachers will showcase costumed students for adoring parents and extended family. “Look Mom!” she says, modeling the bonnet. The headpiece resembles a handkerchief with earflaps.“That’s lovely,” I say, ” but wouldn’t you like to ask the nice dress-up clothes lady to make one of those for you?” She refuses politely. She likes her bonnet. I praise her for her ingenuity. That’s the kind of mother I am.
Seventeen years later, I am in New York City, with my two adult daughters, on a mission to buy lace and tulle for a wedding dress. The girl who made the Pioneer bonnet is planning a wedding. Her younger sister—in fashion design school— has designed the dress. “We’ve got to go to New York City to the fashion district to get the best material,” the younger daughter says. And, of course, I agree. That’s the kind of mother I am.
The morning of our NYC fashion district quest, we have breakfast at a diner. “I want to eat where the locals eat,” I tell the hotel concierge. I remind the girls that I like to “absorb the flavors” of the places we visit. That’s the kind of traveler I am.
At the greasy spoon diner, the hostess greets each guest by name. We seem to be the only tourists. I order Eggs Benedict, with lox. Between the final pour of coffee and paying the check, my younger daughter excuses herself from the table. This leaves the bride-to-be alone with me. There is tension between us. Most likely, I have annoyed her, thanks to a few annoying habits. I have an opinion about everything, tend to micro-manage each family activity and talk to strangers indiscriminately. Despite my bad habits, I have tried to let both daughters pursue their passions. I endorsed their desires to become artists and helped finance their art degree educations. I have only argued briefly with their artistic pursuits, making diplomatic remarks such as, “You’d be an excellent lawyer. Have you ever thought about accounting?” I’m the kind of mother who lets her children make their own mistakes.
For some reason, while sitting in a New York City diner with my the annoyed bride, a memory emerges. “Remember the pioneer bonnet for the Thanksgiving program?” I say. “I let you make it yourself. I could have had a bonnet made for you.” I lean back in my chair and wait for my daughter’s epiphany. I am the kind of mother who trusts my children to make the right decisions. Susanna grimaces and directs her eyes toward her near-empty plate. In that moment, I realize I have misremembered, a wonderful term coined by President George W. Bush. Misremembering is not the same as forgetting. Misremembering is the psyche’s effort to reconstruct events to match our desires.
The fact is, I had betrayed my daughter’s desire to make a Pioneer bonnet. I had not let her risk making a mistake. Yes, I had ordered the headpiece handmade from the dress-up clothes lady. What must my nine-year-old daughter have felt when she tucked her handmade creation in a corner of a drawer, or—worse— tossed it in the trash bin?
Most moments of our life, including the one we’re in, are lost forever, says memory expert and psychologist, Daniel Kahneman. He describes two types of remembering selves: “The experiencing self lives in the present,” he says, while “the remembering self is a storyteller.” The “remembering self,” preserves certain events, though few memories emerge exactly as they happened. According to psychologist, James McGaugh, memory is evolutionary—a neuropsychological process created during moments of intense emotion or danger. The intense emotion can be either good or bad.
In my childhood memoir, I write a scene in which I am sitting on my father’s shoulders at the Macy’s Day Parade in New York City. It is 1960. I am five years old. The next day, our family will board a ship, The United States, to move to Germany. The ship, the dates, and the place can all be verified. The actual memory—sitting on my father’s shoulders— cannot. There are no photos; no father or mother. My brother does not remember. The image has become part of my life narrative, if only because I have written it.
The two anecdotes I’ve described here are most likely inaccurate, though one tells the truth. Indeed, Dad was the kind of man who wanted his children to feel happy on a difficult day, even if he wasn’t the type to carry his kids on his shoulders. The day before our move to Germany was memorable because of its emotional intensity—even for a five-year-old.
On the other hand, the memory of my daughter’s bonnet was neither true nor accurate. It is a story constructed by a narrator who wants to preserve an image of herself; she is the kind of mother willing to risk personal humiliation to let her children explore and create.
In the greasy spoon diner, when I realized I had misremembered, I wanted to say, “I’m sorry. I should’ve let you wear your handmade bonnet.” I wanted to say, “I thought you might be embarrassed or teased.” I should have told the truth: “I was worried what the other mothers would say about the kind of mother who lets her daughter wear a silly homemade bonnet in a school program.” Instead of saying any of these things to my daughter, I changed the subject, paid the bill, and ushered the girls out the revolving door toward the fashion district. Actually, I did not know where the fashion district was; my younger daughter knew the way. But I am the kind of woman who wants to navigate New York City like a native.
Dear reader: I teach memoir. In workshops, we discuss the unique challenges that memoir writing poses. Can you write accurate dialogue after many years have passed? What if your memory differs from your sister’s memory? Can a story be factually inaccurate, but true? Why do we remember certain events?
This essay began as “The Stories We Tell Ourselves About Ourselves,”—an excellent title I will use for another essay, someday. As a working title, it did not capture the precise meaning that emerged as I wrote. As with most personal essays, the writer begins the hike at the metaphorical trailhead, with an idea, but does not know what lies ahead. Such is the joy of the writing process.
The best an essayist can do is to take the reader on his or her journey. To do that successfully, the writer must travel on the journey too!
I often begin my essays with an anecdote that seems to reoccur. Sometimes, all I want to do is find out why the memory boomerangs. The key memory here is the realization of the lie I had told myself for 17 years. Oddly, I had rarely thought of the original Pioneer bonnet episode, until the day I misremembered it in that New York City diner.
Readers prefer complex characters—a difficult task for a creative nonfiction narrator who is also the protagonist in the story. I’ve enjoyed making myself a complex character—writing about my idiosyncrasies. And I thank my family for helping me to see myself as I truly am!