WEBVTT - How the Memoir I Never Wanted to Write Changed My Life

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<v Speaker 1>This is our American Stories, and we tell stories about

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<v Speaker 1>everything here on this show. And today we have a

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<v Speaker 1>story from Leslie leyland Fields. She's an author, a speaker,

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<v Speaker 1>and a teacher, and she lives in Kodiak, Alaska. This

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<v Speaker 1>is a story of how she came to write her

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<v Speaker 1>first memoir, something she thought she'd never do. Here's Leslie.

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<v Speaker 2>This is the story of a book. Really, it's the

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<v Speaker 2>story of writing a book I never wanted to write.

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<v Speaker 2>It's the story of surviving the writing of a book

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<v Speaker 2>I never wanted to write, but it changed my life

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<v Speaker 2>in every way. Let me back up. I've always believed

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<v Speaker 2>in the power of story. I was a voracious reader

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<v Speaker 2>from a young age, and as soon as I could write,

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<v Speaker 2>I began creating poems and stories. I grew up in

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<v Speaker 2>a time in culture when quiet children were the best children,

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<v Speaker 2>and thinking you were special in any way was the

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<v Speaker 2>pinnacle of pride, and pride was the worst sin of

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<v Speaker 2>them all. So when I grew up and became a writer,

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<v Speaker 2>my main interest was other people's stories. Who would care

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<v Speaker 2>about me or my life? Yes, my life was not

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<v Speaker 2>a typical American life. I lived in Alaska, mostly in

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<v Speaker 2>the summers. I commercial fished with my new husband and

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<v Speaker 2>his family on a tiny island in the wilderness with

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<v Speaker 2>no roads or cars. It was an island with eight

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<v Speaker 2>people on it, just us. We lived through days and

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<v Speaker 2>nights of such drama and stories. Even then, other people's

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<v Speaker 2>stories were much better than mine, so I wrote about

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<v Speaker 2>other people. By age forty, I had published two collections

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<v Speaker 2>of stories about fishermen and women, and then I began

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<v Speaker 2>a third book. This one was different. It was about

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<v Speaker 2>my own experience as living in the wilderness with my husband,

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<v Speaker 2>digging a well by hand, hauling water and buckets, building

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<v Speaker 2>our own house with very few tools, doing the laundry

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<v Speaker 2>outside in the winter in an old ringer washing machine,

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<v Speaker 2>prying frozen laundry off the line, and stacking the towels

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<v Speaker 2>stiff in my arms into the house like a stack

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<v Speaker 2>of wood. Stories like that I sent to my agent.

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<v Speaker 2>Yes I had an agent somehow. Earlier that year I

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<v Speaker 2>had landed a hot New York literary agent. But she

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<v Speaker 2>didn't like it. Here's how our first phone call went, Leslie,

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<v Speaker 2>I really like these essays, but there's one problem. You're

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<v Speaker 2>not in them, I know, I replied, that's the point.

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<v Speaker 2>This is about topics. Much bigger than me, about water,

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<v Speaker 2>the ethical dilemmas of killing animals, about our wasteful culture,

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<v Speaker 2>so many important things. It's about universals, yes, but we

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<v Speaker 2>don't care about universals unless we care about you. You're

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<v Speaker 2>completely absent, and nobody wants essay collections. Now this has

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<v Speaker 2>to be your story. You're gonna have to turn this

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<v Speaker 2>into a memoir. A memoir, I gulped. Memoir was a

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<v Speaker 2>dirty word to me. I equated it with first person

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<v Speaker 2>tell all stories by strippers and smoky bars, and with

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<v Speaker 2>supermarket tabloids of disgraced politicians and ravaged movie stars. Memoir

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<v Speaker 2>felt indulgent and just a little scandalous. I couldn't do it,

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<v Speaker 2>and besides, no one would be interested in my life.

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<v Speaker 2>Uh no, Kate, I can't do that. And I hung up.

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<v Speaker 2>But the next week, while teaching a creative writing class,

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<v Speaker 2>I heard myself say to my students, if you want

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<v Speaker 2>to grow as a person, as a writer, you have

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<v Speaker 2>to take on new challenges. And then I stopped for

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<v Speaker 2>a moment to listen to myself. I decided to try it.

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<v Speaker 2>Took a month to get another phone appointment with Kate.

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<v Speaker 2>The next call went like this, remember, Kate, you asked

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<v Speaker 2>me to turn those essays into a memoir and to

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<v Speaker 2>make it about my life. Yes, of course, okay, I'll

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<v Speaker 2>do it good. I knew you would. Then I got brave.

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<v Speaker 2>So how do you write a memoir? She laughed, or

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<v Speaker 2>something equally unhelpful. You'll figure it out. It wasn't easy

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<v Speaker 2>to invite that eye into my house. I so wanted

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<v Speaker 2>to stay invisible. But I started with scenes, the cornerstone

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<v Speaker 2>of good memoir, to take the readers straight into the action.

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<v Speaker 2>Scenes that show a life rather than tell about a life.

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<v Speaker 2>I wrote about the first day when I officially became

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<v Speaker 2>a fisherwoman. I remember the process of getting dressed with

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<v Speaker 2>layer upon layer of sweatshirts, hip boots, rain pants, finally

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<v Speaker 2>layered so thick and heavy I could hardly walk. I

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<v Speaker 2>wrote about my first snack and bathroom break on the

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<v Speaker 2>water in the boat. Talk about basic. We worked in

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<v Speaker 2>eighteen foot open boats with no cabin and of course

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<v Speaker 2>no toilet. This day I was out with my new husband,

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<v Speaker 2>Duncan and my father in law de Witt. That scene

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<v Speaker 2>went like this, it's almost noon. Now we've been fishing

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<v Speaker 2>for four hours. I sit wearily on the wooden seat,

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<v Speaker 2>looking at the fish on the floor of the skiff.

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<v Speaker 2>There must be five hundred of them, all fat and shiny.

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<v Speaker 2>The waves slap and slosh our skiff side to side.

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<v Speaker 2>I'm hungry and I need a bathroom break. But how

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<v Speaker 2>does this happen in an eighteen foot boat. There's no

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<v Speaker 2>cabin on our little wooden pea pod. It's just a

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<v Speaker 2>glorified row boat afloat on a great Alaska sea. DeWitt

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<v Speaker 2>sits heavily in the bow, his black green raincoat mirroring

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<v Speaker 2>the dark water below. Well, I guess I gotta shake

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<v Speaker 2>the dew off my lily de wit in tones in

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<v Speaker 2>a gravelly voice. I can hear his Oklahoma accent. Though

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<v Speaker 2>we left forty years before during the dust Bowl. He

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<v Speaker 2>grew up poor, picking cotton and working the land. Now

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<v Speaker 2>he works the seas, but he moves awkwardly in the

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<v Speaker 2>boats and never seems at home on moving water. Except now.

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<v Speaker 2>I smile at Duncan and DeWit and turn around when

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<v Speaker 2>they are done. It's my turn. Let me off on

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<v Speaker 2>that rock over there, Duncan. I point to a cove

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<v Speaker 2>with a shelf of rock jutting out. In a moment

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<v Speaker 2>we are there, the skiff rising and plunging in the waters,

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<v Speaker 2>swirling around the rocks. I'm nervously perched in the bow,

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<v Speaker 2>ready to spring overboard at just the right second. My

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<v Speaker 2>hands twitch as they grip the rail. I'm motionless but

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<v Speaker 2>breathing hard. Jump. Duncan yells as the nose of the

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<v Speaker 2>skiff rises in the foaming surge. You're not close enough.

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<v Speaker 2>I shoot behind me. I see sitting calmly beside Duncan,

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<v Speaker 2>as if we've done this one hundred times, I can't

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<v Speaker 2>get any closer. Jump, he shouts, as the boak gurgles

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<v Speaker 2>and sinks now in the trough. I can't leap that

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<v Speaker 2>distance in all this fishing gear, and if I miss.

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<v Speaker 2>How did a simple bathroom break become a life and

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<v Speaker 2>death endeavor? I wrote scenes from my life all summer long,

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<v Speaker 2>But first we created a riding studio on our island.

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<v Speaker 2>My husband and I cleaned out a tiny shed on

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<v Speaker 2>a dock over the ocean. It was filled to the

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<v Speaker 2>rafters with decades of junken old tools. We dragged in

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<v Speaker 2>two sawhorses, dropped a four x eight sheet of plywood

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<v Speaker 2>on top, and there it was my desk, my office,

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<v Speaker 2>the shed wasn't insulated or heated, so even in the summer,

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<v Speaker 2>with the temperature in the forties, I sat in a

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<v Speaker 2>winter coat, hunched over my legal pad or old computer, writing,

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<v Speaker 2>remembering as I wrote, the fishing boats rumbled as they passed,

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<v Speaker 2>the crows and bald eagles screeched overhead. I wrote, and

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<v Speaker 2>I wrote. Then I sent the chapters to Kate.

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<v Speaker 1>And you're listening to Leslie leyland Fields and the story

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<v Speaker 1>of writing a book that she said she never wanted

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<v Speaker 1>to write. In fact, as she put it, it's the

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<v Speaker 1>story of surviving writing a book that she never wanted

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<v Speaker 1>to write. When we come back, more of the story

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<v Speaker 1>of Leslie leyland Fields, a regular contributor here on this show,

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<v Speaker 1>her story about writing her memoir here on Our American Story.

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<v Speaker 1>And we continue with our American Stories. And we've been

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<v Speaker 1>listening to author, speaker, and teacher Leslie leyland Fields. She

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<v Speaker 1>lives in Alaska and has been brilliantly telling the story

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<v Speaker 1>of how she came to write her first memoir. Let's

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<v Speaker 1>return to Leslie.

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<v Speaker 2>I'm on the phone again now with Kate. Leslie good

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<v Speaker 2>scenes here graphic, compelling, her voices clipped, hurried as usual.

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<v Speaker 2>The book feels closer, but there's something crucial missing. What

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<v Speaker 2>is it? I asked with Dred, wondering if she's going

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<v Speaker 2>to tell me to scrap the whole thing and start over.

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<v Speaker 2>Why did you stay? I understand why you went into

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<v Speaker 2>the Alaska Wilderness all that, but what kept you after

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<v Speaker 2>all that happened? And how were you changed at the end?

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<v Speaker 2>Without that arc, there's no story. Yeah, okay, I say,

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<v Speaker 2>heart sinking. I know Kate is talking about the inner story,

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<v Speaker 2>haven't I taught this to my students. Every story has

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<v Speaker 2>at least those two layers. The outer story what happens

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<v Speaker 2>in the out there world, and the inner story, the

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<v Speaker 2>deeper story, this psychic, emotional, spiritual story. I knew this

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<v Speaker 2>before I began the memoir. This was what scared me

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<v Speaker 2>most about life. Stories and memory are. But how could

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<v Speaker 2>I say no to this? Now? I had signed the

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<v Speaker 2>book contract, and I knew that if I was going

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<v Speaker 2>to grow as a writer and as a human being,

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<v Speaker 2>I needed to take this next step. There are hard

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<v Speaker 2>questions I needed to ask. Who was that twenty year

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<v Speaker 2>old girl just married, standing in a skiff, trying to

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<v Speaker 2>keep her balance in the new waters of marriage? Living

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<v Speaker 2>with her in laws on a remote island in Alaska?

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<v Speaker 2>Was there something there we all might see about finding

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<v Speaker 2>and making home in a strange land. I started writing

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<v Speaker 2>inside each of the significant events of those first years.

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<v Speaker 2>Whenever I had the chance, I scribbled, digging down layer

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<v Speaker 2>by layer. I wrote myself back to those days in

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<v Speaker 2>the skiff, the long hours, the storms, getting sick and

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<v Speaker 2>still needing to work, to the icy silences between my

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<v Speaker 2>husband and me. I wrote about the day I jammed

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<v Speaker 2>clothes and food into a backpack and escaped the island

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<v Speaker 2>the only way possible, by waiting until low tide and

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<v Speaker 2>marching off down to an empty shack four miles down

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<v Speaker 2>the beach, gun over my shoulder for bears. I wrote

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<v Speaker 2>myself back to that near disastrous day when I almost

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<v Speaker 2>didn't make it home. I insisted on taking the skiff

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<v Speaker 2>out on an important errand it was going to be

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<v Speaker 2>a four hour trip. I insisted on going alone. It

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<v Speaker 2>was a long way to go on the ocean in

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<v Speaker 2>the winter. A snowstorm came up. I got lost in

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<v Speaker 2>the total wide out, and then the engine broke down.

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<v Speaker 2>I wrote about it, describing how scared I was when

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<v Speaker 2>it started snowing, when the engine died, when I knew

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<v Speaker 2>I had drifted out onto the open ocean, when I

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<v Speaker 2>thought I might die, But the inner story I didn't

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<v Speaker 2>know it yet. I was learning again what I thought

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<v Speaker 2>I already knew. Our stories about so much more than

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<v Speaker 2>what happened. It's just as important to know why those

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<v Speaker 2>things happened, to know what moves and motivates us, and

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<v Speaker 2>how those moments, large and small, change us, and how

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<v Speaker 2>they might change our readers too. I began to write

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<v Speaker 2>more deeply into those two stories, and it slowly came clear,

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<v Speaker 2>word by word what I was doing in both of

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<v Speaker 2>those events. I was escaping a place that wasn't mine,

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<v Speaker 2>an ocean, an island, a life that belonged to my

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<v Speaker 2>new husband and his family, but it didn't belong to

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<v Speaker 2>me yet. It wasn't mine except by marriage. By proxy.

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<v Speaker 2>My life was borrowed, shoehorned into whatever cracks I could

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<v Speaker 2>fit in, even where we lived those first three summers.

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<v Speaker 2>We lived in a tiny loft atop a rickety ladder

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<v Speaker 2>and an old building, a loft just big enough to

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<v Speaker 2>hold a bed and a wood stove. We could only

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<v Speaker 2>stand up in the middle. As I wrote, I realized

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<v Speaker 2>so much about my life I hadn't seen before. I

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<v Speaker 2>felt compassion for the young woman I was, and for

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<v Speaker 2>my husband, for the two of us trying to make

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<v Speaker 2>a marriage work on a wilderness island with endless nets,

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<v Speaker 2>ocean and fish we couldn't control. I realized that both

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<v Speaker 2>those escapes helped make that island in that place mine too.

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<v Speaker 2>In some way, my fingers on the keyboard showed me

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<v Speaker 2>yet more. There were so many rescues and second chances.

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<v Speaker 2>I began to see that these chapters from my life

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<v Speaker 2>were indeed about survival, but it was also a story

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<v Speaker 2>of grace, not easy grace, hard grace, the kind you

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<v Speaker 2>pray you'll survive. And there it was the title and

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<v Speaker 2>the paradox that came to shape the final story, Surviving

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<v Speaker 2>the Island of Grace. Six months later, I finished the book.

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<v Speaker 2>My stomach quivered, my index finger hovered over attached file.

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<v Speaker 2>No one would publish it, I was sure, but I

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<v Speaker 2>had learned so much in writing it page by page.

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<v Speaker 2>I punched send and it was done. What would Kate think?

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<v Speaker 2>I soon found out. Kate sent it out into the

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<v Speaker 2>world immediately after receiving it, and then it began a

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<v Speaker 2>steady stream of rejections from the major New York publishers

0:15:45.120 --> 0:15:48.160
<v Speaker 2>over the next two months. But then there was a

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<v Speaker 2>yes from one of the New York Big ten publishers.

0:15:53.160 --> 0:15:57.040
<v Speaker 2>It was a hearty yes. Suddenly Kate was great, and

0:15:57.120 --> 0:16:02.080
<v Speaker 2>she said I was too. My first memoir and surely

0:16:02.160 --> 0:16:06.680
<v Speaker 2>my last would soon be in bookstores around the country.

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<v Speaker 2>But that's not the true happy ending to this story.

0:16:12.280 --> 0:16:17.160
<v Speaker 2>When I began writing the memoir reluctantly, I did not

0:16:17.240 --> 0:16:20.880
<v Speaker 2>even know what I was looking for. The writing showed me,

0:16:21.800 --> 0:16:25.480
<v Speaker 2>in the midst of roaring seas, the claustrophobia of an

0:16:25.520 --> 0:16:29.520
<v Speaker 2>island with no escape, doubts of my own ability as

0:16:29.560 --> 0:16:35.880
<v Speaker 2>a writer. Words saved my life. Words carved out a

0:16:36.040 --> 0:16:41.360
<v Speaker 2>space between land and sea where maybe I could hold fast.

0:16:43.400 --> 0:16:48.800
<v Speaker 2>Writing surviving the Island of Grace brought me here to

0:16:49.000 --> 0:16:55.280
<v Speaker 2>this moment. One morning, I sat on a distant beach

0:16:55.360 --> 0:16:58.880
<v Speaker 2>on our island. I was alone except for the two

0:16:59.000 --> 0:17:03.440
<v Speaker 2>ravens on a cliff above me, spatting. Was I sorry?

0:17:03.600 --> 0:17:07.080
<v Speaker 2>I had chosen Duncan and this place and this very

0:17:07.119 --> 0:17:11.920
<v Speaker 2>particular life that came with it. No, how could anything

0:17:11.960 --> 0:17:15.160
<v Speaker 2>be other than it was? But when I chose all

0:17:15.200 --> 0:17:18.639
<v Speaker 2>of this back in nineteen seventy seven, I did not

0:17:18.920 --> 0:17:23.280
<v Speaker 2>know what I was choosing. I came here with Duncan

0:17:23.440 --> 0:17:28.680
<v Speaker 2>at twenty, running from a difficult childhood. I was certain

0:17:29.040 --> 0:17:33.320
<v Speaker 2>I would find wholeness and freedom in him and in

0:17:33.400 --> 0:17:39.080
<v Speaker 2>this island world. I looked around. It was still as

0:17:39.160 --> 0:17:42.639
<v Speaker 2>wild and clean and vast a place as when I

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<v Speaker 2>first came, but I hadn't known what to measure.

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<v Speaker 1>Then.

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<v Speaker 2>I know now that what I was looking for is

0:17:50.359 --> 0:17:53.959
<v Speaker 2>not something that can be found, not in a place

0:17:54.640 --> 0:17:59.720
<v Speaker 2>or in a person. Freedom and wholeness must be made,

0:17:59.800 --> 0:18:03.000
<v Speaker 2>and it is made out of whatever is around you.

0:18:03.960 --> 0:18:06.600
<v Speaker 2>It is made out of whatever is given to you.

0:18:08.240 --> 0:18:12.560
<v Speaker 2>Like the barnacles on the rocks around me, I looked

0:18:12.560 --> 0:18:15.840
<v Speaker 2>at them closely. They were anchored to a massive rock,

0:18:16.440 --> 0:18:19.320
<v Speaker 2>but they were moving. In each of them, the beak,

0:18:19.840 --> 0:18:23.760
<v Speaker 2>like a tiny telescope, was rounding the perimeter of its

0:18:23.800 --> 0:18:29.479
<v Speaker 2>own shell. There, halfway between land and water, was a

0:18:29.480 --> 0:18:35.440
<v Speaker 2>creature that literally grows its own cliff walls, His own

0:18:35.640 --> 0:18:40.879
<v Speaker 2>form entraps him. It is his prison, his island he

0:18:41.040 --> 0:18:46.239
<v Speaker 2>cannot escape. But then I saw it is also his

0:18:46.480 --> 0:18:53.200
<v Speaker 2>mountain fortress, the very grace that sustains his life. When

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<v Speaker 2>I finished writing Surviving the Island of Grace. I was hooked.

0:18:58.960 --> 0:19:02.240
<v Speaker 2>Once I started writing the truest words from my life

0:19:02.280 --> 0:19:07.679
<v Speaker 2>that I could find, such clarity, discovery, and consolations have

0:19:07.760 --> 0:19:11.840
<v Speaker 2>come to me. I don't ever want to stop. When

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<v Speaker 2>we steward the beautiful burdens and difficult passages we've been

0:19:16.200 --> 0:19:20.199
<v Speaker 2>given in our lives, we have another chance to reclaim

0:19:20.680 --> 0:19:25.080
<v Speaker 2>and heal those burdens. I've seen it thousands of times

0:19:25.600 --> 0:19:28.920
<v Speaker 2>in my own life in others. This is my work

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<v Speaker 2>now teaching others to do the same, and in all

0:19:34.240 --> 0:19:38.879
<v Speaker 2>our stories, we who are stranded on islands and in

0:19:39.000 --> 0:19:44.159
<v Speaker 2>strange places have found the words and the grace to

0:19:44.280 --> 0:19:46.840
<v Speaker 2>write ourselves home.

0:19:50.520 --> 0:19:53.760
<v Speaker 1>And a special thanks to Leslie laland Fields. To find

0:19:53.760 --> 0:19:56.600
<v Speaker 1>out more about her work and also her teaching, go

0:19:56.640 --> 0:20:01.119
<v Speaker 1>to Leslie Lalanfields dot com. I didn't know what I

0:20:01.240 --> 0:20:05.720
<v Speaker 1>was looking for. The writing showed me words saved my life.

0:20:06.520 --> 0:20:11.440
<v Speaker 1>Leslie leyland Field's story here on our American Stories