The “Ugly” Route to a Beautiful Memoir

By Jennifer Cramer-Miller

“You’ve got to be uglier,” Kate said.

As my editor and friend, she advised me on how to improve my memoir’s first draft, a version that breezily recounted the story of my incurable illness.

I avoided sinking into the most depressing details of my ill health, opting instead for swift and light. But that was exactly Kate’s issue; while I’d skimmed the surface of my story, effective, engaging memoirs plunge into the guts of the story.

“We need to dive deeper into what you really felt when blindsided by kidney failure at twenty-two,” Kate continued. “That had to be hard. Show us how hard.”

I faced the classic memoirist’s challenge: could I break the surface and spill a raw, unvarnished account of my challenges on the page? In the New York Times article, “Behind the Scenes of Choosing the Best Memoirs,” staff book critic Jennifer Szalai explains the best memoirs offer “an unsparing self-awareness… a willingness to go there, wherever there happens to be.”

Mission accepted. Go there. Dive into the “ugly.”

Easier said than done. I understand why many memoirists wrestle with this challenge. The task runs contrary to our cultural diet of social media. A hasty scroll through Facebook or Instagram displays the opposite of “ugly.” Curated images showcase happy people and beautiful things.

The art of memoir is the opposite of social media’s fast swipe #lifeisgood content. An engaging memoir buckles you in and takes you for a ride. Unfiltered. Far from a photoshopped flower on Instagram, a memoir reveals the messy soil from which it bloomed.

So, my job was to resuscitate and reveal those “ugly” days when kidney failure snatched me from my rightful place as a promising twenty-something.

But how? I’d stuffed and stored those painful memories in the dusty basement of my mind. I braced myself, unpacking them would feel strenuous. I required devices to open my memory and found three tools that proved helpful.

Tool #1: Excavating old journals and letters.

Old notebooks and letters opened a portal and I found despair shouting from lined pages. My scribbled words mourned the loss of my promising job, my cozy apartment, and the kidney function I’d taken for granted. Revisiting swoopy loops of emotionally charged handwriting transported me to the scene of the crime. 

I could hear the click of the biopsy needles, taste the poisonous prescriptions, and twitch from the terrifying clutch of kidney failure. As I recalled the things I’d lost—weight, hair, my sense of self—the weighty texture from a blanket of grayness smothered me again.

It was dismal, reliving the record of my decline on paper. But once I descended, deep into the guts, I could write about it in vivid detail. After experiencing a fall, standing up becomes a victory.

Tool #2: Using musical memories to open doors I’d locked long ago.

According to The Washington Post article, “Why Music Causes Memories to Flood Back,” music can trigger “intense recollections from years past—for many, more strongly than other senses such as taste and smell—and provoke strong emotions from those earlier experiences.”

Years earlier, when survival hung in the balance, I’d replayed the British band Roxy Music’s ethereal, haunting song, “More Than This.” Enclosed in my car, enveloped by lyrics, I’d pleaded for healing. Please, let my life be more than this.

It became essential to listen to that song again. The notes unsettled me, melodically connecting me to the fear that I might slip from this world. Desolation from my past became palpable, allowing me access to capture it on the page. Only after experiencing desolation, does celebration shine.

Tool #3: Comparing notes with friends and family.

My mom and I rehashed the many medical appointments she’d attended with me years earlier. (She’d cheerfully referred to each one as a “riot.”) When we replayed her silly antics that propelled us through the worst of it, we laughed all over again. And she peppered my memories with different ones of her own. Her shared memories, both good and bad, effectively revived mine.

The perspective of friends proved useful as well. When I rehashed my Seattle departure with girlfriends, individual reflections colored in nuanced shades. When everybody held a paintbrush, the canvas became fuller. Without darkness, there’s no contrast for vivid color.

Before Kate’s advice, I had been hovering 20,000 feet above my story. By reverse engineering social media’s mode and using these three tools, I descended into the “ugly” mud. With dirty hands, I sculptured something meaningful for readers to feel, smell, see, and taste.

So, thank you, Kate. You’ve underscored an essential memoirist lesson. After readers slide down into the “ugly” parts of an author’s story, they fully celebrate the rise to a place that is beautiful.

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Jennifer Cramer-Miller’s memoi, Incurable Optimist: Living with Illness and Chronic Hope launches on August 15th. Her worked is featured in the Brevity Blog, The Sunlight Press, Grown & Flown, The Erma Bombeck Blog, Star Tribune, Minnesota Physician, Mamalode, and Medium. More information on her homepage.