Finding our true voice in narrative non-fiction

Lindsay Johnstone shares her inspiration and a writing exercise with London Lit Lab

London Lit Lab is very lucky to have a guest post from author Lindsay Johnstone, whose Substack publication, What Now? with Lindsay Johnstone is a Substack Bestseller, and from where she is currently serialising her memoir, Held in Mind. You can find out more about Lindsay at the end of this post.

Here she shares her thoughts about narrative nonfiction:

When writing our lives, we might assume that the voice will come easily to us. After all, we are pouring ourselves onto the page, so surely there is no need to be concerned about authenticity? We are the central character in our own story, after all. The voice is inextricably ours, telling the story as only we can. Instead, we might turn our attention to world-building, to plot, to pacing thinking these the aspects of memoir that require our concentration.

And this does (mostly) hold up to scrutiny… when we write in real-time. It’s how I approached the present-day sections of my memoir about intergenerational trauma, motherhood and loss, Held in Mind. It feels true of life writers I admire deeply including Lily Dunn, Clover Stroud and Leah McLaren. The prose cannot help but sing with their unique voice. Above all, in the sections where they are writing in a way that feels they are in conversation with the reader, we ‘hear’ them best.

Caro Giles wrote on this in a recent post on her Substack, Unschooled. As part of her Twelve Moons monthly book club, she generously invites her readers a glimpse of her writing process. She describes having feverishly gotten the words down during a particularly intense and raw period of her life. The call to the page was strong and even after many a draft, that is what echoes across the book’s chapters.

It’s true of writers who work in partnership, too. I’m thinking about Anna Wharton who wrote alongside the late Wendy Mitchell across three memoirs charting her experience of living and dying with early-onset Dementia. The use of second-person narration in the first book, Somebody I Used to Know, is particularly effective at capturing the loss of the ‘old’ Wendy. The pre-dementia version is addressed by the post-diagnosis Wendy in those passages as ‘you’ to underscore the emerging fracturing of self as a consequence of the disease’s progression.

There is something very special at play here. It’s something that does not exist solely in the world of writing partnerships but highlights a boundary we all must cross, even when we are writing about our own experiences. We must still capture other voices. This is because the versions of the self appearing on our pages are not always the version writing the words now.

Consider the ‘you’ of the narrative. What version of ‘you’ are you attempting to capture? Is it tinged with the present-day reflective voice of now, or are you intent on taking the reader back with you to experience an event or time through younger eyes? Flashback sections, which in the present tense lend an immediacy to the action, are a brilliant way of dropping the reader directly into a particular time. They invite us to see the world through the eyes of that younger version of the self, and this is most effectively achieved by shifts in the narrative voice.

Consider this at work in, for example, Ali Millar’s memoir, The Last Days. The reader meets her first as a very young child where the voice is distinctly childlike and lacking in knowledge of the adult world. As the narrative progresses and Ali grows up, the voice shifts to reflect this.

An exercise in finding the truth in our voice

When teaching memoir, I often borrow strategies from fiction to enable writers to authentically characterise the version of themselves that appears on the page. One brilliant exercise, borrowed from acclaimed Scottish novelist, poet, playwright and screenwriter Kevin MacNeil, invites us to search for the truth of our character, even when that character is ourselves.

Consider which version of the self you are attempting to capture. Is it you, now? Perhaps you are looking to key into the version of you at a pivotal moment from the past? A moment from childhood, written in the first person? You might like to do this using nicknames you had at a time in your life and run through this exercise a number of times, depending on how many versions of ‘you’ appear on the pages. This is an excellent way to distil the essence of character, and also gives you some insights into relationships that might be significant for you to explore further.

Start by writing your first name (or nickname) at the top of a fresh page.

Next, complete the following prompts as truthfully as you can. You might want to take time over each one, or jot down the first thought you have if this helps you access the truth more readily.

• It means… (choose an adjective or adjectives)

• It is… (choose a meaningful number)

• It is a… (choose a colour and concrete noun)

• It is… (name a fear you have)

• It is… (name a passion, or passions)

• It is the memory of… (name a person significant to you / this version of you)

• Who taught me… (describe the lesson they taught you)

• When I… (describe what enabled you to learn this lesson)

• My name is… (write your full name, or the full name of the ‘you’ being explored)

• It means… (reflect upon the answers you have given above and develop this into something close to the character’s / your motivation or quest in the story)

Here is an example:

Sarah

It means unfinished, ravenous, insatiable.

It is four

It is a September egg, unhatched, cleared from the birdbox.

It is fearing indifference.

It is loving working things out. Family. Music. Words.

It is the memory of my daughter, Edith.

Who taught me to love and accept love. To accept the parts of me that are in her, too.

When I allowed myself to be vulnerable to loss by letting myself truly love.

My name is Sarah Anne Fleming.

It means the behaviour is a symptom of something that runs far deeper and requires patience, compassion and curiosity to be coaxed out of hiding. It means not reacting, but responding.

Perhaps sketching out character in this way will help you get closer to the voice? Lead you on to consider vocal ticks, inflections, thought patterns? The exact form language takes when this version of the self is speaking?

Lindsay Johnstone is a life writer, reviewer and expressive writing tutor based in Glasgow, Scotland. Her publication, What Now? with Lindsay Johnstone is a Substack Bestseller, on which she writes on perimenopausal, post-therapy midlife and also explores the craft of life writing. Her memoir on intergenerational maternal trauma, dependency and loss – Held in Mind – is serialised as audio for her Membership community and is currently on submission. Through her Substack, she runs seasonal journaling sessions as well as expressive writing courses based on the Pennebaker Method. The March run of her online course, Memoir in a Month, is sold out but you can register your interest for the September run now. Go to this Google form for more information: https://forms.gle/bjJ8uRZ8DpjKkjdN8

Lindsay works at Scotland's national literacy charity, Scottish Book Trust, and writes for Glasgow Review of Books. She is currently working on her first novel and her next narrative non-fiction book.