Memoirs must be very difficult to write because it is the epitome of an unreliable narrator. You have to recollect the minute specifics of events from years or even decades ago, place them in the ‘correct’ order despite the fact that the experienced linearity of time collapses outside of that few year sphere, and then transform them to make them more witty or interesting than they ever actually were. You must also struggle with the human urge to always portray yourself in a good light, because you don’t want to admit you don’t like or enjoy the person you were at that time. You need to have had a notable life, or at least be grandiose enough to think that your life is notable despite the fact that that’s almost everybody’s perspective.
I suppose the purpose of a memoir is to share ones individual experiences in the hope that readers resonate with similar coming of age themes and mistakes, or to warn people of certain actions or routes. I have read three memoirs (that I can remember, I feel like sometimes they masquerade as other forms) and I have realized that it must be very difficult to not come off as self deprecating or pitying, especially when relaying traumatic events or mistakes that were entirely the authors fault. It requires a very matter of fact tone and quite a high degree of detachment as you restory your life, despite the fact you must steep and dwell in myriad hazy pockets of memory. I wonder if my outlook on memoirs would change if I was to venture off and read ones written by people other than white, middle class authors, or if the aspects I’ve identified are simply integral to the genre. I wonder if I’ll ever think my life notable enough to dedicate a book to its events.
