Quick test: What made you stop reading the last memoir you read?
- 1It felt like a list of events instead of a story
- 2The big moments didn’t land the way they should have
- 3I couldn’t connect with the person telling it
- 4Nothing made me feel anything
Every one of these has the same cause. The writer skipped the scenes that matter most.
I know because a client’s story made me cry at my keyboard last week. Not the dramatic moments. Not the victories. The quiet scene he almost skipped over because he thought it was boring. A memoir that races from milestone to milestone is hollow. The author paid for a book and ends up with a résumé, and the scene that would have hit hardest is still sitting in an interview transcript because the author decided it was boring. Catching that scene before it gets cut is most of what I’m paid to do.
The Athlete
My client was telling me about his high school sports career. Decades ago. Ancient history by most measures.
We were on a video call, him walking me through the timeline of his life. Standard memoir interview stuff. Then he got to one moment.
His voice changed. The pace slowed. The words came harder. He’d hit a wall. The kind of obstacle that crushes most people. The kind that makes you question whether you have what it takes. Whether you’ll ever be good enough. Whether all the work you’ve put in means anything.
In that fire, he learned hard truths about himself. Truths he’d been avoiding for years. Truths that hurt to face but shaped the man he became.
He told me what his coach said. What his father didn’t say. What he told himself in the dark when nobody was watching. When I wrote that scene later, alone at my desk, headphones on, I wasn’t transcribing. I was there with him. A teenager fighting for something that mattered, learning who he really was under pressure. Discovering that the obstacle was the story he’d been telling himself about who he was.
That’s when the tears came.
How do you find the scene that matters in a memoir?
Most people get this wrong about memoir writing. They think the story is in the big moments. The wedding. The promotion. The championship. The day everything changed. Those moments belong in the book. Readers rarely cry at them, though, because they’ve read a thousand weddings and championships and already know how those scenes end.
Readers cry in the quiet moments before and after. The night before the big game when you couldn’t sleep. The drive home after the funeral when you stopped for gas and couldn’t remember how to pump it. The last ordinary Tuesday before everything fell apart.
My client didn’t know his high school sports story would be the emotional center of his book. He thought it was background. Ancient history. A quick paragraph to establish character.
I knew better because I’ve done this over a hundred times. The scenes people rush past are usually the ones that matter most. The stuff they think is boring is often the stuff that’s too painful to look at directly. When I’m interviewing a client, I listen for the throwaway lines. “That was a rough year, but anyway…” Stop. Go back. What made it rough? “My dad wasn’t really around for that part.” Stop. What do you mean wasn’t around? “He worked a lot. It’s not a big deal.” It’s always a big deal.
I think of memoir interviews as excavation. The story a client walks in wanting to tell is almost never the one that needs telling, and a ghostwriter who simply takes dictation hands back a polite book that nobody finishes. That wastes the client’s money and the story along with it.
If you’re working on your own story, the real material is in what you skip over: the moments you summarize instead of scene, and the years you compress into a sentence.
The AI-Enhanced Brainstorming Guide breaks down how to find these moments and dig past the obvious to what matters most. It’s the same excavation process I use with clients, adapted for writers working on their own.
The Camera That Saved Me
When my wife Claudia died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t write. Couldn’t focus. The weekends were the worst, with long stretches of alone time where my mind could think bad thoughts.
But I could pick up a camera.
There’s something about looking through a viewfinder that forces you into the present moment. You’re not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. You’re thinking about light, composition, the split-second before something beautiful happens. The world shrinks to what’s in the frame.
Whenever I felt myself sinking into grief, I found somewhere to go. Joshua Tree. Death Valley. Anza Borrego. Sequoia. Dozens of national and state parks. I was running from grief, but at least I was running toward beauty. Then the Renaissance Faire started up again.
The last time I’d been there was with Claudia, before she got sick. We spent a day wandering through the dusty lanes, watching jousts and shows, eating turkey legs. A performer named DanWill pulled her into one of his bits.
I still have the picture of them together, Claudia laughing, DanWill in full costume. She looked healthy. She looked happy.
We had to leave early that day. The dust triggered a massive asthma attack. I used an epipen in the parking lot while she fought for breath.
Now I was going back alone. That first year, I went to every single day of the seven-weekend run and photographed everything. Jousts. Parades. Belly dancers. Fire performers. Royalty in impossible finery. I posted everything online and suddenly everyone wanted their picture taken.
Then DanWill approached me. Out of the thousands of people he’d performed for, he remembered Claudia. He remembered her laughing in the Devore dust. He didn’t know she was dead. He just remembered her joy.
Something shifted. I wasn’t just watching anymore. I was participating. I probably met more people during those seven weekends than I’d met throughout the rest of my life. I didn’t plan to become a photographer. I was just trying to survive. The camera gave grief somewhere else to live that wasn’t just my chest.
Why These Stories Matter
My client’s memoir taught me something. His story wasn’t about grief, but the process was the same. He’d been carrying something for decades, and telling it finally gave it somewhere else to exist.
That’s what writing does. That’s what any creative work does when you let it.
The stories that cost you something to write are the ones worth reading, because they tell the truth about carrying something heavy for years. Readers can tell when a writer has sanded that truth down to spare everyone’s feelings, and they stop trusting the rest of the book the moment they notice.
Writing doesn’t make the weight disappear. But it gives you somewhere to set it down. Everyone has a story like this. A moment when everything shifted. A loss that reshaped you. An obstacle that became part of who you are.
That story matters, and to more people than you. To everyone facing a similar wall right now who doesn’t know if they’ll make it through.
Memoirs that skip the year that hurt are cowardly. Cutting it protects the author’s comfort, and the price is paid by the one reader who needed that chapter most, the person facing the same wall right now with no idea whether they’ll get through it.
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The AI-Enhanced Writing Starter Kit includes three free guides to help you dig past the obvious. Part of the AI-Enhanced Writing Series with 44+ handbooks covering every craft challenge you’ll face.
