Memoir Writing and Basic Rifle Marksmanship

“Understanding the operation and functions of any machine is vital to becoming an expert with that machine.” (FM 3-22.9)

U.S. Army Field Manual 3-22.9, a reference on firing the M16A2 and M4 carbines, applies this theory to the practice of rifle marksmanship. A soldier must understand how a rifle operates and functions before he fires it. In a very similar vein, a writer, or memoirist in my case, must understand some fundamentals of good writing when embarking on a first memoir. That’s not to say that one cannot simply begin writing. In my opinion, getting words down on paper seems to be the most important part of writing. But learning a few techniques can help a new writer, possibly eliminating the need to delete hundreds of hard wrought kilobytes, or at least lessening new writer’s tendency to crumple bad pages into balls and fling them across the room.

After many months of beginning my own first memoir and reading a stack of books on the craft of writing, I began to look at my own pile of first draft, half-filled, yellow legal pads and wonder if I was on track. After weeks of just waiting for the words to come, then trying to force them out by writing with fancy gel pens or listening to cello music at top volume, I decided to just start writing. The result was a significant chunk of a first draft that is currently in need of repair. I would like to refocus my efforts as I continue writing down the path, toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Normally, my method would be to write a first draft in chunks, however disfigured, however many gaping holes it contains, and once it was complete, only then begin to revise, refocus, shuffle things around, look at the work as a whole.

My method does need adjusting, however, as I’ve never attempted a book-length piece before. This method worked fine for essays and short papers, but it doesn’t serve me well enough at this point, and so I’ve turned to the many books on the craft of writing for advice and encouragement. These books are wondrous. I’ve spent many nights curled up with a cup of cocoa and Annie Dillard, Anne Lamott, Brenda Ueland, Ralph Keyes, John Gardner, Natalie Goldberg, and the like. I’ve gone to sleep with a happy vision of myself sitting at the computer, hearing the ticking of the keys as letters and words begin to appear on the page, one after another. But somewhere in between the words of these writing masters and the end of my pen, the air gets heavy and foggy, and I can’t seem to hang onto that happy vision. The words don’t come out as I planned. I’m not writing what I am hearing in my head or feeling in my heart. I’m like a child pointing at a dog and saying moo. And so I need to do something about this, because I can’t simply give up writing and go be an accountant or a dental hygienist, because I am a writer, a wordsmith, an ink slinger. A person who loves books above all things, and finds something magical in them. Truly, I don’t think writers have any choice in their profession. There is simply nothing else that they can do for very long without going insane and turning back to splicing sentences together while walking down the street, or feeling bits of poetry suddenly bubble up on long drives. Writing is a calling. It is almost like the priesthood. The words and images simply come, wherever the person happens to be, whether poised over a blank notebook or working in the grocery store checkout line. Ironically, most new writers may find that once they seriously start calling themselves a writer and trying to make the words come out in a specific style or fashion that the wellspring of imagination can sputter and die quite easily. This is the critical time for new writers to remember to keep putting words down on paper. I am doing this now in my memoir, trying to put one word in front of another, getting small chunks written and laboring hard to get them out.

Before I was officially a writer, enrolled in a graduate program and actually putting words on paper, I was in the U.S. Army. I trained for four years during college as a cadet and spent four years on active duty as an intelligence officer. This training, which occurred between the ages of eighteen to twenty five, the formative years for many adults, is deeply ingrained in me and tough to shake. For the first year or two after leaving the service I unconsciously answered in the affirmative with a quick “check” or “roger”, wore my hair pulled back in a pony tail or a bun because that was the only way it looked right to me, and occasionally expressed pride, happiness, or understanding with a loud “Hooah”, much to the general befuddlement of my civilian audience. But some military training, like mission planning, organization, and leadership has helped me in my civilian life, too. And so, I think it’s quite normal for me to think with a piece of my military brain when writing in any genre. Specifically, what comes to mind when I am poring over the pile of first draft pages is the practice of basic rifle marksmanship. Firing a weapon and seeing where the bullets pushed through on the paper target. Adjusting, and firing again. Checking the paper target again. In other words, targeted writing.

“The soldier should assume a comfortable, steady firing position. The firer is the best judge of the quality of his position. When the soldier first assumes his firing position, he orients his rifle in the general direction of his target. Then he adjusts his body to bring the rifle and sights exactly in line with the desired aiming point. When correct body-rifle-target alignment is achieved, the front sight post must be held on target, using muscular support and effort.” (FM 3-22.9)

A steady position is important in memoir writing. It is all too easy to get off track and write scenes and descriptions that do not serve the story. Structure is imperative. Thankfully, writing is like firing a weapon in that the writer is the best judge of whether the structure fits the story, much like the firer knows if his body is in a good position. A memoir can be segmented into separate, short sections, written in long paragraphs that go on for numerous pages, or anything in between. Wherever the writer chooses to place the structure along the spectrum, whether light and segmented or weighty and dense, she must be aware of its effects. The structure is a tool that affects the writing process itself. Does the writer use a section title as a kernel of thought to spawn each short segment? Or does the writer continue on for pages, folding in characters, scenes and events, gradually adding to the story’s complexity, like the skin and layers of an onion? Both methods are effective, and it depends on the writer and the story. Much like holding a rifle tight in your shoulder and resting your cheek on the stock, a writer will be able to feel what structure is right for a particular story. Other methods will feel wrong and simply miss the target.

“Having mastered the task of holding the rifle steady, the soldier must align the rifle with the target in exactly the same way for each firing. The firer is the final judge as to where his eye is focused. When the eye is focused on the front sight post, the natural ability of the eye to center objects in a circle and to seek the point of greatest light (center of the aperture) aid in providing correct sight alignment.” (FM 3-22.9)

Book-length memoirs require a solid aim or focus. It has been difficult for me to find the essence of my story, even though it is my life I am writing about. The problem of losing focus arises because a life contains so much. A memoir is not an autobiography. It does not start at birth and end at death. A memoir could recall a period of only a few days. Or it may float over many years of life and touch down at certain moments in time. A writer’s perspective is special because it lets readers into a new world. But it is also dangerous to be the only one with this perspective. We risk running over, replaying scenes that don’t matter. There is no one sitting next to us, pointing us in the right direction. A reader’s reaction may be that they dislike the story, or that they get a feeling that something is off, or missing. Only the writer’s heart can judge if the story is focused correctly. Only the memoirist can find the center of the aperture.

An experienced writer’s eye may immediately recognize the emotional center in the story. But for me, and probably for many a first-time memoirist, that essence can change as one continues to write the first draft. Memoir writing demands a great investment. The writer has to not only recall events and dialogue from the past but also must understand them. This sounds simple. But it’s not.

Just when you think you’ve successfully blacked out unpleasant memories from your past, you must summon them up, dwell on them, brood over them, re-dream dreams that haunted you as a child, feel your teenage fears and disappointments again as an adult. The triumphs and happy times are wonderful to write about, but let’s face it, the best stories lay in the realm of the strange, the sad, or the atypical.

In the process of remembering and writing, sometimes I change my mind about the way things happened, or why. This changes my essence. And so I am forced to adjust my aim. It’s not an easy feat to accomplish, because it’s something real—a fictional piece can be somewhat easily altered, while memoir cannot. It’s disconcerting to learn something new about yourself in this process of looking back. Here you thought you knew it all so well, enough to write a book on it, and then it up and changes on you, turns your life around. Again. You are not sleeping well. Again. This is all part of the process of writing memoir. Never fear, the sensation of discomfort can only mean you are doing it right. You have found the point of greatest light. Keep writing.

“The firer must learn to control his breath. There is a moment of natural respiratory pause while breathing when most of the air has been exhaled from the lungs and before inhaling. Breathing should stop after most of the air has been exhaled during the normal breathing cycle. The shot must be fired before the soldier feels any discomfort.” (FM 3-22.9)

Pacing is required in memoir, just as in other genres. You can’t simply spit it all out and expect it to be good writing. A good writer will know when to speed up time and when it is appropriate to slow down and wander through one’s memory. New writers may simply write everything down in a rushed effort to get something on paper. But remember to target the first draft—adjusting it for the previously discussed fundamentals of a steady position and aim, and then moving onto assessing the breathing cycle of the book. Is the reader left breathless and amazed at the end of a high action segment? Is there a cliffhanger that urges the reader to turn the page at the end of a section? Or does the chapter end like a great sigh of relief, resolved like a deep breath, so the reader can close the book for the night, go to the bathroom or get a drink of water knowing they have reached a natural stopping place?

“Any sudden movement of the finger on the trigger can disturb the lay of the rifle and cause the shot to miss the target. The precise instant of firing should be a surprise to the soldier. The soldier usually tenses his shoulders when expecting the rifle to fire. It is difficult to detect since he does not realize he is flinching.”
(FM 3-22.9)

Writing a book is a long process. Writing a memoir is no exception. The author can try to apply the fundamentals of rifle marksmanship to the first draft and possibly end up with something better. After determining if the work has the right structure, aiming to ensure the focus of the pages is in line with the intent in the writer’s heart, and controlling the breath and pace of the chapters, the writing has been targeted. The writer is finally ready to squeeze the trigger. The first draft now becomes the second draft. The writer must reload and begin again, and again, until the bullet finally pierces the center of the target. It is a process. Writing memoir is not about simply regurgitating the past. It is an experience unto itself, a situation that creates a whole new set of emotions and revelations as the writer progresses. And now, as a memoirist, I am trying to simply write, and write simply, without flinching.

The State of Things (Part I)

Ideas come to me in that place somewhere between sleep and awake, which is one of three standard ways in which ideas normally come to me, the others occurring while showering or brushing my teeth. It seems somehow that water or sleep must be involved for me to think.

Maybe I should read a few more craft books, pat myself on the back and only speak to myself in soft, gentle tones. I think there is something truly wrong with me, which makes me very glad, because that must mean I am a writer. And so I keep faith.

Yes, I will stack up the legal pages and watch that sweet yellow pile accumulate. This is my new strategy: Just write. Get it out. The Get It Out Draft. (Someone else coined a phrase like that…Natalie Goldberg in Wild Mind? No…maybe it was Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird? Those craft books are like a warm blanket. I read them looking for great discoveries and insights about writing…little secrets and fantastic blips…things that motivate me and make me feel connected to the paper and pen.) I’m content to muddle through for now. I know everything I turn out is not flowing from a golden pen. It’s okay to write shitty first drafts. (That one is from Anne Lamott for sure.)