How the Process of Memoir Writing Broke a Barrier for Me to Write Fiction

When I tell others I am a writer, an inevitable question follows: “What do you write?” When I answer, I might receive a cocked head in response, as writing memoir and fictional narratives may sound contradictory, if not curious. 

Upon my foray into memoir writing decades ago, the thought of writing anything but what I knew in first-person POV never crossed my mind. I didn’t know then that my years of studying, writing, and publishing memoir would open a door I had kept shut to a world of my imagination. I see now how writing memoir broke a barrier to writing fiction.

(7 Things I Learned While Writing Across Genres.)

I considered my official start of writing to be at 15 when my mother gave me a pink journal, reasoning every young lady should have one. With its lined pages splayed open in my lap and a favorite pen in hand, I journaled through my anxious teens, recorded life’s contemplations in college, and continued recording through early adulthood. Personal essays followed, and I started a blog called “Magical Thinking” on what was then called Blogspot.com, where I considered making connections in finding my place in the world, self-discovery, and the meaning of life lessons to be a magical experience.

Soon, a timeline of life events, a detailing of my experiences, and magical thinking begged for more. Memoir was born as a natural progression for my writing to reach a new place with more meaning.

I immersed myself in learning the craft of memoir, starting with a simple definition: a nonfiction narrative written from the author’s perspective about a single, important part of their life. Intellectual understanding of the parts that made memoir—reflections, takeaways, lessons learned, a single event—was one thing, but translating the education into a memoir of my own was another.

I had all the memoir elements except for one: the single event. Perhaps memoir was not a one-size-fits-all description. I thought it wasn’t necessarily how the genre was defined, but how one’s story was being told. I might not have a single life-changing event, but I had a theme, my voice, and a slender thread of a series of life experiences I wove throughout the story. I disregarded the noise in my head and the boundaries of what is memoir and relied on storytelling.

So where did I go from here now that I had a published memoir?

A writer must grow, develop, and hone skills, I thought, and maintain a practice that defies definitions of genres. Fiction? I perceived fiction as being difficult to write. There’s implementing the clever use of literary devices, nailing a great opening paragraph, if not a great opening sentence, creating a grabbing hook, and crafting prose that flows like any good tide. I would have to rely on an untrained imagination because my practice of writing my perceived truth had grown strong, like a well-exercised muscle.

I was stuck, suspended.

Until one day when I took a walk in the woods.

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I veered from a narrow path to investigate a short bridge humped over a sleepy river. Below were a pair of mallards commanding a “V” in their wake through water like plate glass. Trees hugging the soggy banks were in various states of fall undress, dropping their leaves and filling my vision with peace and softness. I must have been in the right place, at the right time, when the sun’s rays reached for the river. A bloom of sparkles, like diamonds bursting, made me squint from the reflection. While watching the pops of glitter, I created an imaginary world below, with a small boy wearing a red cap and clutching a long stick poking the giving earth. He would traipse the river’s banks in delight, lost in a world of natural wonder. And then I thought of a pop that would shatter the otherwise serene moment.

While walking home, I thought of how that setting struck my imagination to create a fictional character, and how something would change the trajectory of a magical scene. I wrote about my visit to the bridge and infused the experience with imagination to create a fictional short story. “When the Sun Kissed the River,” was published soon after.

“Play to your strengths,” a good friend had always told me. Her comment redirected my focus to what had mattered to me all along: to write a good story. I could transfer to fiction skills learned from memoir: creating a strong voice and character and crafting good prose.

I learned that writing fiction was not as difficult as I had perceived. An experience in the natural world was where I unexpectedly discovered the bones of fiction, organically inspiring my imagination. I learned to stretch my visualization when I would peek into the beyond through a slivered opening of a fence or catch the rhythm of a river’s flow, and perhaps add an unexpected sound slice through the thick trunks of oak trees as inspiration.

My journal writing was the nugget of gold that shined with an understanding of what my writing could be. Writing fiction after writing memoir was a natural progression. My perception of writing fiction was not a wall holding me back, but a challenge and an opportunity to get to another side of writing. I will always be a writer of memoir, but fiction is where I go to let my creativity play, to meet new characters, and to tell a good story. 

Check out Nancy Chadwick’s The Wisdom of the Willow here:

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