Surface Question 1: Why Memoir? (Part 2)

In this series, “Surface Questions,” I will address questions related to my forthcoming memoir about media, SURFACE TENSIONSwhich will be released on July 1st. To submit a question, email me at nathanroberts@g.harvard.edu; I will draw the name of one question-submitter, who will  then receive a free copy of the book. 

Surface Question 1: So I guess I’ll take the bait… I know that you’ve written about movies before, and I know that you’ve written articles, but what inspired you to write a memoir? Are there any particular memoirs that inspired you?

(Continued From Part 1.) One of my favorite forms of writing is the essay. The essay can get a bad rep because it’s associated with those dreaded things your high school teacher made you write. But that’s a shame. Those are poor, pathetic bastardizations of the essay. The essay, as Vinson Cunningham recently observed in The New Yorker, stems from the sermon. (My dad is a pastor – make the connection yourself.) The essay draws on experience and intellect, thoughts and feelings, narratives and theories. It’s both argumentative and personal, as academic as you want and as intimate as you desire. It draws on prior texts and marshals them for new purposes, situates them in the context of lived experience. It throws a bunch of different elements in a pot and stirs them until readers end up with an unusual, unpredictable stew that helps them taste the world in a new way.

It does this by tracing the thought path of an idiosyncratic, individual mind. If you can see the writer’s mind working on the page, in all of its messy glory, then you’re really reading an essay. One of my favorite things about the essay is its implicit belief that the life of the mind cannot – indeed, should not – separate itself from the rest of life. To split both parts of a person is to end up with an insufficient version of that person. We don’t just think through concepts and we don’t just feel our way through everything around us. We don’t just form opinions and theorize about the world; we live in the world while we think about it.

The memoir, as I imagined it, focused only on lived experience. Carl, my editor-to-be, was quick to point out that this wasn’t always the case. He mentioned Real Sex by Lauren Winner, a book in which Winner thought about sex and then talked to people who made her think new things about sex and then thought about it some more and then talked to more people. I recalled two conceptually-dependent memoirs, The Year of Living Biblically and The Night of the Gun, and I realized that the memoir could be bent in unique directions.

Therefore, feeling experimental, I teased out a possibility that had been swimming around in my mind at some low, deep level: I had read so many strident, idea-driven pieces about the internet and social media, but I had never read any personal pieces about life lived around and through social media. I hadn’t seen the sort of complexity and nuance that I lived through every day shine on the page. I felt like it was missing from public discourse. (This was before Master of None and the TED Radio Hour’s Screen Time, by the way.) Enough with the total naysayers. Enough with the bright and baby-faced Zuckerbergians babbling ebulliently. We needed more… and perhaps I could bring more to the table. That was exciting.

whiteboard

Ye Old Whiteboard. Some of these were crucial. Many were trashed.

As Carl and I brainstormed on Hendrickson’s whiteboard[1], this idea expanded into something more fully formed and flexible: I would think about media in a more general way, about drawing, painting, film, videocassettes, music, and so on. I would situate social media within the broader range of mediums with which I’ve spent my whole life engaged. And I would think about how these mediums helped form my emerging selfhood and shape my relationships with others.

We wrote a basic template for the memoir on that not-too-cold October day.[2] As I sat in a cracked leather seat on the commuter train back to Boston, I was pleased by a couple crucial things: (1) Carl and I seemed like we would get along splendidly. He didn’t want to cram me into some pre-made niche in the “Christian Book marketplace.” He seemed to really get my voice. We agreed that I should deliver something “in between Donald Miller and David Foster Wallace.” I could do that, I thought. I’m nowhere near as brilliant as David Foster Wallace, of course, but I’m more academically oriented than Donald Miller. (2) I could treat the project like a series of essays, strung together by personal anecdotes. I had experience in cultural studies, in theories of the image, in film. Even if my life wasn’t that exciting or moving, the ideas could stand on their own two feet. My life would form a mere structural framework for the ideas. It didn’t have to be a memoir by any traditional standards. I knew, then, that this book could be okay.

That was before I realized that this strategy would not, in fact, be that okay after all.

To be continued tomorrow…

[1] I know, by the way, that this is not how books are usually conceived––but I’d highly recommend this sort of proess. The occasional genius can whip out something phenomenal by her own, lonely self. But most of us could benefit from smart sounding boards like Carl, and I am extremely thankful that I had him.

[2] It’s funny to look at a picture of that whiteboard now: some ideas were totally dropped – several I don’t even remember – and some were are crucial in the final manuscript, but all were morphed into something deeper and richer than anything we could’ve imagined on that day.

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