Editor Shelley Sperry talks Rebecca through the process of writing a memoir and everything holding her back from getting her writing done. Together they discuss how to keep writing and when a story should be a memoir vs how to vs big idea.
Shelley Sperry runs a writing, editing, and research shop in Alexandria, Virginia, called Sperry Editorial. As an editor, she specializes in nonfiction. She likes working with writers of memoir, science, history, and just about any other topic. As a writer, she works with nonprofit and business clients on topics related to labor, the environment, and education. You can find her at sperryeditorial.com or email her at sperryeditorial@gmail.com.
Things Shelley and I mention in the episode:
My Writing:
What does it mean to be a writer?
I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
Writer | ‘rīder| a person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or regular occupation
I’m sure you know the definition of ‘writer’ as well as I do, but I put that in as a reminder of the act itself: writing. In this definition, ‘writer’ means you write in order to make a living. But, in its simplest form, being a writer simply means that you write.
That you type up stories.
That you scratch sentences on a cocktail napkin.
That you imagine scenes playing out in your mind and hurriedly write them down in a notebook you bought especially for this story—that probably won’t get filled up before you buy another—using a specific pen that you hope to never lose.
(Ok, that last one might only be me.)
In any case, the point is, somewhere down the line we fall in love with stories and want to write our own. We get inklings of ideas and capture them on paper. We imagine what it means to be a writer. We picture our success on the bestsellers lists, with movie deals, and touring various bookstores with adoring fans asking us millions of questions about the worlds and characters we create. We see ourselves spending our days creating something where nothing existed before.
And while we’re living in this imagined world with our rose colored glasses, we sit at our computers—or in front of our special notebooks—trying to make it all happen and…
Nothing comes out.
Not one word.
Nada.
Nil.
Zip.
Zero.
Or maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who can type up all the words in the world (in which case, why are you here and can you tell me your tricks), but you worry instead that those words aren’t good enough. Or, that people won’t like them enough. Or, that you won’t launch the career of your dreams with your first book (and you probably won’t, sorry to burst any bubbles), so what’s the point anyway?
That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.
What does it mean to be a writer? Why do I want to write anyway? How can I succeed without driving myself crazy in the process?
Because if you think about it, the first statement is a figment of my imagination. It’s not tangible. I can’t conceptualize it.
Being a writer doesn’t mean anything in and of itself beyond performing the act of writing. I can do that on my own without ever sharing my work or making any money from it.
I should have said I wanted to tell captivating stories. Or, to make a living writing. Or, to make time every day to write even a single sentence because it keeps me sane in a world that gets scarier by the day.
But my goal has always been to be a writer. And because I’ve only ever considered that abstract concept as the goal to end all goals—the idealized version of perfection—it’s increasingly difficult to grapple with what it truly means and to do the work to get me where I want to go.
And where do I want to go?
When I strip away the imaginings of a rich and famous author traveling the world and visiting adoring fans, what’s left is this idea that I can do the thing I love to do (and I really do love it) without feeling like a failure at every turn. The words can pour easily without the sense that they don’t count—because how can it be so easy? And, I can struggle with the words, fighting at every turn for something worthwhile to come out (even when it’s only one sentence in pages and pages of work) without feeling like a fraud—because it shouldn’t be so difficult.
The idea that I can approach writing with love, with a sense of compassion that this thing I love to do can be fun, challenging, and rewarding as I turn my practice into stories other people want to read, are eager to get their hands on. That’s the dream.
Though I’ll take the adoring fans and large advances, if The Universe needs to hear it.