Photo by Evil Erin
Earlier this week, my dad asked me for feedback on a story he wrote. The story is about a father figure who turned out to be something of a con man. Memoir is often boring, but this story was amazing, stranger than fiction.
You could also tell the story was written by an amateur. My dad is a good storyteller, but telling a story to a few people at a party and writing professionally are two very different things.
What's the difference between pro and amateur writing? How can you write a story as good as any professional writer?
The Secret to Writing Like a Pro
Of course, there are thousands of little lessons you need to learn before you can really write like a pro. But here's the mistake I see most amateur writers making:
They don't get close enough to their story.
It's not enough to tell us what happened. You have to embed your readers within your narrative. You have to get close enough that your readers can hear what you heard, see what you saw, and experience the emotions you felt.
You can call this showing instead of telling or being more specific, but it all comes down to how close you are to your story.
Getting closer can be difficult, especially if you're writing about your own life. It's hard to remember specific details when something happened thirty years ago. However, this is what separates amateur writing from pro writing, this distance.
How close can you get?
Challenge yourself to get closer.
Don't give us the gist, the “Reader's Digest” version. Instead, show us the color of her skin when she blushed while she laughed, describe the sound of the rain as it fell on the grass in the warm, summer evening, and tell us about the feeling of the worn wood on the stock of the gun as you pull the trigger.
In narrative, details don't distract from the story. They become the story. (Tweet that?)
Be Professional AND Interesting
Just as my dad's story was interesting but poorly written, there are plenty of stories that are well written and completely boring. I'm not saying you will be a bestseller if you learn to write close. You still have to do the hard work of learning to tell a story that captivates your reader.
Here are a few books I've read recently do this particularly well (affiliate links):
- The Dog Stars by Peter Heller
- The Dinner by Herman Koch
- The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
What do you think separates professional writing from amateur writing?
PRACTICE
Tell a story about a father figure of yours. Write as close to the story as you can.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please be sure to comment on a few practices by other writers.
Happy writing!
Thanks for this post. A great reminder as I help others write their memoirs. Really like your descriptions, especially: “the worn wood on the stock of the gun as you pull the trigger.” Great visual.
I was 16 when they told us they were divorcing. He was lighting a pipe, a prop he used to enhance his image. “It’s your mother who wants a divorce, not me.”
“Why?” I asked.
He assumed a pose of distinction and sucked slowly on the stem. “Because I’ve had affairs with women.”
“How many?” I asked.
He paused for dramatic effect. “Too many to count,” he exhaled and smiled.
I felt I was watching a well rehearsed scene from a play, not something happening to me and my family. These theatrics always made me crazy. I would look at my parents, and not be able to detect anything authentic, not a real word, gesture, or expression. I would search inside me and not be able to find a thought or emotion that was real. I couldn’t understand what was going on around me, or what I was feeling. No point of reference existed from which to make sense of anything or anyone. And there was no one to turn to. I was crazy. I wanted to explode. That night I took a bottle of bourbon from the parents’ cabinet, and in my bedroom, by myself, I drank it.
What a sad story! Funny how pipe-smoking Dads remain in our memory, “sucked slowly on the stem” Don’t know if this is truth or fiction, but Dad’s answer seems a bit casual to offer a sixteen yr. old? Thanks for sharing a thought-provoking story.
Definitely too casual, Eva. He was a con man, liar, manipulator, and proud of it. A sociopath. Thanks for reading and commenting.
Great story. enjoyed the details.
From the first line to the last, you had me. I was invested in the 16 year old and felt her pain when the dad spoke. Loved the line “I felt I was watching a well rehearsed scene from a play” . Me too. Sad, yet very real and believable. Good work.
thank you, Terry, for reading and responding.
Dad was a doer not a talker. You could find him anywhere by following the smell of his pipe. He was filling the bird feeder, pulling a few weeds, paying the bills, cleaning his tools in the garage. He built us a swing made of a simple plank and a piece of rope and we swung happily from the pear tree. He taught us how to jump ocean waves and how to float with our feet sticking out of the water. He raked up a huge pile of leaves to save for garden mulch, but allowed us to jump and play in them all during the fall. When he finished mulching, he burned the rest and that pungent smell is a rich memory.
When he left for work, he always wore a suit with a vest and a felt hat. He wore the same outfit to see the doctor or go shopping.
Dad loved a good meal with his family but he had a special weakness for mayo. You could catch him about midnight raiding the icebox for cold potatoes, the jar of Helmann’s in one hand. He loved a good cup of coffee or a mug of beer, a salami sandwich with a side of sardines.
One night I had a bad earache and he sat up with me most of the night. He told all of us to “stick together” wherever we were, and his favorite motto was, “Things will work out, they always do.”
I was with him during his final days, and he described beautiful birds he could see but none of us could. I miss him and hope he’s still filling a bird feeder somewhere.
A beautiful memory and piece of writing, Eva. Thank you.
Thank you all for great suggestions and feedback!
Such a fine job of characterization. And I love the ending, however I think the last paragraph would bring us closer if you told us how Dad described the birds, instead of just telling us that he did.
Agree with Karl. Great story, but wound up a little to quickly. Perhaps some direct speech in the last paragraph would have helped to draw us into that wonderful idea: “he described beautiful birds he could see but none of us could”. That is an absolutely marvelous image, that could really be developed.
What wonderful memories! If you had more time and more room, and example of how he demonstrated “sticking together” would be good.
Great job by showing us what kind of “doer” your dad was right after you told us. Building, filling feeders, paying bills, etc.,nice work. I agree with Karl about the ending – instead of telling us what he said, maybe paint the scene. It would be more intimate.
He was grumbling about Mom again as I drove him home from the hospital that afternoon. In as gentle a tone as I could manage I said, “Dad. You have a vision problem.”
He glared at me with his good eye. “Whaddaya mean, a VISION problem?
His other eye was bandaged, but the bandages didn’t completely cover the mess on that side of his face where cancer had chewed up his eye socket and was draining in open sores. He’d just had a dose of radiation to slow down the disease’s insidious spread into his brain. He did indeed have a vision problem.
Though I felt sorry for his suffering, now was as good a time as ever to face the truth. Who knows how many months he had left? “In all these year you’ve never been able to see in any good in Mom.”
I braced myself for his angry response, but he gave me the silent huff, one of his well-practised skills.
Before we’d left the city, heading for home, we had stopped at the grocery store and picked up a few things. Mother’s Day was two days ahead so I’d bought a spray of yellow carnations for my Aunt Sadie, who lived with Mom and Dad at this time. I was pleased to see Dad pick up a potted plant with a lovely flower. Mom would like that. In my recollection, Dad rarely gave her anything but grumbles and scowls.
Mom was looking at the mail when we got home and showed us a card from their son*, Verne. As we put our groceries away she read, “To a wonderful mother…”
“Wonderful!” Dad snorted. “Hmph. I’ve been married to you for forty years and I’ve never seen anything wonderful yet.”
I piped up, “Well, Dad, I told you that you had a vision problem.” He glared at me again.
I handed the bouquet to Aunt Sadie and she admired it. Mom was glad, too, and commended me for thinking of Sadie, since none of her children were nearby. Mom was always glad to see others get something nice. In spite of the unhappiness she lived with daily, in her old age she had a sweet, sensitive disposition that endeared her to everyone she met.
Two days later the neighbour lady, a woman about twenty years younger than Mom, phoned and invited us for tea, so Mom and I went. We chatted about this and that, then she happened to say to Mom so sweetly, “Your Fred is such a dear. He brought me this lovely plant for Mother’s Day. But that’s Fred, always thinking of others.”
I was stunned. I eyed the plant Dad had bought, innocently blooming its heart out. (Good thing there was no big knife around or I might have grabbed it and hacked that plant to pieces.) Neither Mom nor I responded to her remark. I wonder if she understood our silence?
Yeah, that was Dad. Even as he faced death he was still always thinking of somebody else rather than his own family. Especially other women.
(* I was raised by my Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Fred from the time I was three months old. Verne was their only child.)
I have always wondered what I could possibly say at his funeral. He is a man that not many people know well, although he has always had many friends. He is a brilliant raconteur and is often to be heard telling stories.
Our wedding, twenty years ago, was the occasion when I discovered that he made hilarious speeches, and I laughed so much I cried. This was a side to him I had never really seen before and I was amazed.
When we were young, Father’s Day was not really celebrated in the UK, and when I grew up, if I wished him a Happy Father’s Day he would just respond with a grumpy, “Why are you wishing me a Happy Father’s Day? You never celebrated it before.”
I can’t say that any of the things written in those cards would be applicable to him. He wasn’t the best dad in the world, nor was he particularly caring, neither can I say he was my hero.
The only time I remember him in a heroic light was when I was playing in the garden, aged about seven, and I fell over and started crying. He hurried from the other end of the garden, picked me up and ran in to my mother who would know what to do.
At weekends we would go sailing together, and these were the times when I felt closest to him. It was something that we could share in common. However, I can’t say that he took the time to show me how to sail, other than letting me take the tiller, while he went to sleep.
Years later, he told my mother that he’d had an affair, when we children were small. He didn’t seem sorry. Instead, his explanation was “I’m a flawed person,” and he added, “I didn’t think you’d mind after all these years.”
A flawed and frustrated person is a good description of my father. It’s no wonder he didn’t have a good relationship with his children, when his wife has never respected him, nor been publicly affectionate to him, and the only memories he has of his own parents are of being told to sit quietly and not disturb the adults.
My 82 year old dad is
a crossing guard for St. Patrick’s school. He loves his job because he loves
people and kids. He also loves to sing. Three times a day he holds his arms wide
when he stops traffic and he sings old barber shop tunes to the kids as they skip across the street. The kids wave and smile and often ask what song he’s singing. They also tell their
teachers about his songs.
One day when he arrived at my house for our weekly
card game, he walked in carrying a large red cardboard STOP sign. The
sign was a gift from the sixth grade class and was covered with signatures and
notes. Dad set it down on my dining table. “Just look at this, look at what the
kids made me.” He said as he choked up. “Read it!” I read a few
notes. “You are Mr. Sunshine.” “Keep singing – maybe one day I’ll see you on The
Voice!”
Dad had quit school in the ninth grade because his teachers had labeled
him trouble. I was one of the few people
who knew how much it bothered him that he hadn’t finished high school.
“Even the teacher signed it.” He exclaimed. “And look what he wrote
across the top!” Dad’s eyes got all misty. I read it aloud. “To Don: a man of
distinction.” Dad had worked as a crane operator at the steel company all his
life. He’d come home from the factory every day and mom would remind him to shower and
change before dinner because he smelled like the sticky tar that filled the
potholes on our streets in summer.
“Why would they do this for me”? Dad asked.
“Why would they make me this sign? I was just doing my job.” I felt like the parent at that moment. All I could do
was smile and hug him. “That’s what grace is dad. You’ve been ambushed by
grace…”
Beautiful story of a humble, happy and compassionate Dad. What a great example of living life fully through senior years. Thanks for sharing this.
thx, Eva!
Great story. The first paragraph really draws the reader in with its delightful quirky details and present tense.
thank you – he is pretty amazing – he has to work to make ends meet and never complains no matter what the weather!
‘Shit the old man is already coming!’ Mario alarmed his brother.
He heard the car coming up the gravel path, which is always some distance. It took his father two minutes to get from the factory grounds to their home. They knew he came every lunch, and the drone of the old jalopy also contributed to the message of urgency that he was on his way. His mother, like all mothers at the time, took care of the household and of the upbringing of kids. His mom, maybe because she knew what life would throw at her, always wanted, as early as the first offspring, a girl. She still had stored, a pair of small, golden ball earrings they once found when scrutinizing her belongings as she was out. But as life is, they were four: all macho. So the task of upbringing them was a tough one. More so now since Mario, the eldest, was on his early puberty with all that testosterone driving him amok. It wasn’t that it was better before; it is only that now, he was growing out of his trousers and so was his energy. She couldn’t cope with him anymore. Or perhaps, she was too tired with punishing rogueries, or with reprimanding for ignoring her requests to do the chores. His brothers were not better, and they followed Mario on any new adventure he contrived.
‘What do we do now? Asked Rudy the succeeding brother.
‘I don’t know. He will wallop me again with the dust-beater.’ The first rattan dust-beater had given up, and now there was one made of green plastic that leaves strong urticating marks on the legs. Mario walked from one corner to the other in fast steps. Looking out of the window rubbing his ass with one hand and shaking the other hand as when you burn your fingers. Now almost running; looking into the corridor; now shaking the fingers of both hands.
‘Oh yeah! I remember. It looks like mum, when she dusts the rugs.’ Rudy said with malice and a schadenfreude face.
‘Let’s hide the beater!’ Said Mario almost shouting and ran out the bedroom door.
‘Yes, let’s do it before he arrives.’ Said Rudy following his steps, any new adventure was good, and he wouldn’t miss it. In any case, he was not so worried, in the end, he wouldn’t be punished; or at least, not as harsh as his brother. The old man always would say: ‘you are the older one, you should know better. Here, this is for what you’ve done. This is for encouraging your brothers! This is…’ and it would continue until he ran out of arguments or his mum begged him to stop.
The dust-beater was in the cupboard behind the kitchen door. When they arrived, his mother was taking the meals to the table, and his father was coming through the main entrance.
‘Get ready for lunch and wash your hands now!’ She said juggling with a heavy and steaming soup tureen.
The game was up. There was no escaping now. His only chance was to hide in the cupboard. But didn’t help much; his mum would tell his father about their feats as she promised she’d do, during the chat they’d have while taking lunch, and there was no way of dodging the family mealtime.
Really good blog Joe… helps quite a bit.
Thanks Joe. This was a helpful post!
Great story. Enjoyed it ^_^
Why is everything has to be so difficult? Even if i am born to ba unhappy why can ijust sit down, relax and talk shit for once in a while and be a king before my deaths comes and take my breath away? Life is so unfair and you could see it through my face, trust me its so appaling.