The Black Patriot

By Glenda Reynolds

It was a time filled with much turmoil before the Revolutionary War. I was once a slave, purchased by the Smith family in Charleston, South Carolina. But Mr. Smith gave me my freedom. It was then that I chose to go by the name of Thomas Smith. There were other former slaves who chose to work the Smith plantation along side of me. In return we received a fair pay and a roof over our heads. We were free to come and go as we pleased. Many black folk in those days were not so fortunate. One man named Jamal was a slave at the Cooper plantation that bordered the Smith plantation. Mr. Cooper treated his slaves very badly. He took better care of his livestock than these people. Sometimes Jamal would tell me that both women and men would be beaten so badly at times that it took days for them to recover.

One evening I accompanied Mr. Smith into the local tavern. A soldier from the Continental Army was recruiting men to fight the British.

“I feel that it is my duty to serve my country, Mr. Smith,” I said as I watched him wipe the froth from his warm beer off his mustache. Smith set his mug down. He looked at me with those clear blue eyes.

“I wouldn’t fault you for serving at all. On the contrary, the family and I would be mighty proud of you!” Smith said as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

Just then we saw Mr. Cooper and Jamal approach the table of the recruiter.

“I would like to give you my slave Jamal to fight in the war,” said Mr. Cooper.

Jamal didn’t look very eager to be there, though he was submissive to his master’s wishes.

“Sign here please,” requested the recruiter.

“I can’t read or write,” replied Jamal.

“Just make your mark then.”

I stood up and walked to the recruiter and willingly signed my name. Cooper didn’t look impressed by my penmanship. Instead he looked at me with eyes filled with intense dislike. After that Cooper left the tavern, leaving Jamal in the hands of the soldier. He eventually came to sit with Mr. Smith and me.

The first chance that Jamal got, he ran away. He traveled all the way to Virginia with some other slaves. He heard that a British man named Lord Dunmore was recruiting black men to fight the rebels. In return the slaves would be given their freedom. Dunmore called his soldiers the Royal Ethiopian Regiment. His men carried muskets and wore shirts that read, “Liberty to Slaves”.

Back in South Carolina I was given my uniform and one pair of boots. I would never receive anything else in the way of clothes or boots again from the military. My regiment fought mightily against the British. We fought using guerrilla warfare against the red coats who were used to standing in plain view to shoot their enemy. The British pushed to the South. We were fighting near the Smith plantation. Under cover of darkness I entered the Smith’s house. Mr. Smith cocked his revolver and asked me to raise my hands. I turned around slowly.

“Mr. Smith, the British are here. Get your wife and children out of here – now!”

“By God, man, I almost shot you! I’m glad to see you that you’re alive!”

“We won’t be if we wait longer.”

I helped round up the children who hid in the fields with their mother. I also roused the black folk and told them to hide too. Soon British infantry came through the woods and onto the property. There were all kinds of crashing noises as they looted the place. When they were finished looting, they torched the house. The Brits soon headed off to the Cooper plantation where the Coopers didn’t stand a chance. Mr. Cooper was shot, his animals were killed, his house burned down, and the slaves were taken away by the soldiers. We felt it was safe enough to battle our house fire. We were able to save most of the house. At least the Smith’s still had a roof over their heads.

While thousands of slaves escaped from the south, some of these joined up with British forces in the north while some migrated to other colonies to seek a life of freedom. We heard that smallpox killed off most of the black loyalists enlisted in the Royal Ethiopian Regiment. I never heard from Jamal again.

France declared war on Great Britain and allied itself to the United States. They did this primarily for revenge for their losses in the French and Indian War. They contributed money, materials, navy, and troops to help win the war against Great Britain.

It was the Battle of Cowpens in Cherokee County South Carolina that turned the war in favor of the colonials. It demoralized the British and set into motion events that would end the war. It wasn’t until the Battle of Yorktown in Virginia that the British were finally defeated. Half of the British army had succumbed to malaria. October 19, 1781 the treaty was signed officially ending the war. The Brits wanted to wave their flags, shoulder their muskets, and play an American tune, but they were denied this. We sent them home with their muskets pointing to the ground and their tail between their legs.

I returned to South Carolina to stay in the employ of Mr. Smith. I helped make repairs to the damaged house. Soon Thanksgiving was upon us as we celebrated with a grand meal. A cornucopia graced the center of the table as we held hands and gave thanks to God.  I was seated next to a beautiful woman that I would later marry. Nothing gives me more joy than to have given my service for the idea of America, the land of the free, the home of the brave.

  

Diary of the Unborn

by Glenda Reynolds

I was conceived in the city of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of America’s freedom, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It is a city rich in history, full of historical landmarks, places where events occurred that helped shape our nation. The people there boast that everyone is considered a brother – “outsiders will never understand”. It is a place where people can get their favorite food which some consider to be a cheesesteak hoagie, soft pretzel and a Tastykake. I wonder if someday I’ll have the pleasure of walking the streets of Philly and enjoying these delicious foods. Like many big cities, there are rich neighborhoods and a lot of poor ones. As with many big cities there are many problems that happen: crime, drug use, teen pregnancy, and people who prey on or abuse other people. There are unfortunate ones who fall through the cracks of society. My story is not unique, but it is worth telling.

My first conscious thoughts are of my own heartbeat and that of my mother’s. Does she know that I’m here? Does she know the potential I have of the man I can become? Someone big and strong to lead others, who makes a difference in the world, or does something as simple as hold her in my arms. Maybe after her bout with morning sickness she will realize I’m here. But no, she drinks a beer and pops some pills. Now I’m feeling sick myself. Maybe both of us will feel better tomorrow.

My mother really likes to dance! It’s really noisy for me. I especially find the subwoofer very irritating. I hear my mother laugh; she is having a good time. Except now I’m feeling woozy again after she drinks what they call “booze”. A fight is breaking out; people are yelling. One of them is my father who is yelling at my mother. I don’t understand what is happening, but there is no mistaking the slap to my mother’s face. We are lying on the ground. She is shaking with sobs as she puts her arms protectively over her tummy. She does know that I’m here! When I grow up, I will protect her from abusive people like him.

Many weeks have passed. My mama still remains with my father, afraid of living with him or maybe afraid of living without him. Which is the greater evil? I seem to be the topic of some heated arguments. My father is slapping Mama again, sending us tumbling down the stairs. We are a little banged up, but we survive. My mama realizes that she needs to get away. She gets up off the floor, throws her jacket on, and catches a bus to the other side of town. I hear the loud engine roar as we leave. We get off at Queen’s Village of South Philadelphia.

I can immediately feel the tension release in Mama as she walks silently through the neighborhood. She sits down at an outdoor café under a large tree. After the waitress serves her a small chicken pasta and tea, I enjoy the spices when I feed through the umbilical cord. She pays the tab and starts walking to my grandparent’s house. We stop at a tall, brick row house that has a window planter full of yellow and orange mums. After she raps on the door, Nana opens it, greeting Mama with a big hug and kisses. Then Nana’s eyes fall on the bulge that is me. Tears come to her eyes.

“I am so happy that you’ve come to visit with us! Come on in and say hello to your daddy.”

 Grandpa is very welcoming, at least he sounds like a caring person. When they observe how far along Mama is in her pregnancy and the bruises on her face, they insist that we stay with them. At the sound of this, I smile a toothless smile. We are loved. Now we are living with Nana and Grampa. I love my grandparents even before I officially meet them. They both know what it is like to live in poverty. They both had dreams and aspirations for themselves and have much to show for it. This is as close to a loving, strong family unit that I’ll ever know. Why can’t my mother and father be more like them? Could it be that they like other things that aren’t good for them?

Days go by. Days turn into weeks. My mama’s life is one big party. It seems that I never get any good sleep to grow inside of her. My amniotic fluid tastes very bitter most of the time. It gives me the hiccups. It doesn’t matter that Mama is big as she carries me. She still loves to wear tight fitting clothing to show off her curves. The men folk love it. Women think it’s slutty. Someday I’ll know what that means. Although we still live with Nana and Grandpa, Mama comes and goes as she pleases. One day the police raid my grandparent’s house. They find pills and pot. No, this will not be my future training pot although it is spelled the same way. One smells different than the other. I wouldn’t know. The policemen are taking us to jail.

Here we sit on a cold bench, surrounded by other thugs. The lights are so bright that I roll inside my mama to get away from the glare. She cries and rubs her tummy.

“I’m sorry I got us in here. Things will get better, I’m sure,” she reassures us. This is her first arrest so they show leniency towards her. My grandparents arrive to get us out, to “spring us from the pen”. No, this isn’t the future (play) pen that is planned for me. The other one has a soft mattress and toys, something that all babies look forward to. I could hear Nana crying. She hugs us. One would think that my mama would be grateful. Instead, she goes back to him.

My father has arrived at my grandparent’s house while Mama and I are there alone. She let him in. He spun his lies about how they should get back together and have a bright future. He insists that it couldn’t include a baby just yet. I stick my tongue out as if I tasted something nasty. I even kick her sides to let her know my disapproval. He continues by saying that if she loves him as she says she does, she would come away with him. He could pay for an abortion, and they would live happily ever after. She believes him.

No! No! No! My bottom lip trembles as I cry.

My mama asks him to wait a moment. She leaves the living room for a few minutes then returns with her jacket.

My father drives us to West Philadelphia to 38^th and Lancaster. Christian protestors are walking around the outside of The Women’s Medical Society clinic. The white, block-like silhouette of a man, woman and baby hangs above “Family Planning, Gyn & Geriatrics” on the corner of the brick building. My father is too cowardly to face these people. He drops us off to park the car. A kind middle-aged woman approaches Mama as she questions the reason for her visit.

“My boyfriend thinks that it’s the best for me to have an abortion at this time. I’m really too young to be caring for a child. I can’t even care for myself.”

“Sweetie, God loves you and your unborn child. He will provide for you. You don’t need to do this.” Mama kept her eyes on the ground, unmoved. “Haven’t you heard the stories about this doctor? He kills babies after they're born!” She used her fingers with a scissors motion.

“I need to do this. You don’t understand.”

“I understand that once you get in there, you’ll wish that you never made this trip. Stop and think about what you are doing.”

“I’ve had time to think. I just want this over with.”

“And what about your baby? Have you thought about what he wants? Surely you’ve felt life inside of you?”

“I’m just sorry that I didn’t have birth control before I got pregnant! Now if you’ll excuse me.” Mama pushed her way past the crowd.

Once she was inside, Mama gags at the smell of urine from the many cats that are allowed to roam the clinic. The furniture is stained with blood. She notices that the emergency exit is padlocked. Is this to keep people out or to keep them in? After signing in, she tries to find a place to sit that isn’t soiled. There are several women present who are only there to receive new prescriptions for Oxycontin or other drugs for themselves and their friends. These are filled by signed blank prescription pads; the doctor doesn’t even have to be present.  A clinic employee ushers Mama back to a room. On the way there, she peers through a door and sees a woman who has been given a labor induced drug. The woman has bled on the clinic’s furniture. No one is attending her. After Mama is taken to her room, she waits silently in a chair in the corner. Soon an unlicensed employee comes into the room. The staff person takes my mother’s blood pressure. She instructs her to lie back on the table as an ultrasound is done. All of the staff has been instructed to falsify the ultrasounds to do them at an angle in order for the image of the baby to appear smaller – to make it appear legal.

“There’s the little fetus. We’ll get him out in no time.”

“But he seems much bigger than that. I am seven and a half months pregnant.”

“I’m sure he does seem big.” She reached into an upper cabinet to retrieve some drugs. Mama was shocked to see jars of baby body parts stacked in a row inside the cupboard. “Now be a darling and take these pills.” The staff person made sure Mama swallowed the pills before leaving. The attendant leaves the room while my mother is left there alone for the labor inducing drugs to take effect.

Mama patiently lays alone there for about a half an hour. The noise outside distracts her. She slides off the table and walks to the window to view the protesters below. One man holds a sign with these words from the Bible, “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life…” Deut. 30:19.  It is as if the wind is knocked out of Mama.

Breathe, Mama, breathe!

She returns to the medical table with her heart and her mind in turmoil. Tears come to her eyes. She is changing her mind as she finds the courage within her. Just then the same staff person comes into her room.

“I can’t do this. I have to leave!”

“You can’t leave. We’ve already started the process.”

“I am leaving – just watch me.”

The staff person beat on my mama’s legs saying, “Stop being such a baby! You wanted this done. Let’s get this done and over with!” At that point the staff person is trying to physically restrain my mother to the bed. Mama is screaming in protest. Just then my grandparents bust through the door trailed by clinic staff.

“Get away from my daughter now!” yelled Nana.

My grandparents grab her clothes and jacket; they support Mama on either side as they help her out of the building. When we step outside onto the sidewalk, people start applauding and are in tears. The same middle aged woman comes up to my mama, plants a kiss on her cheek and says, “I was praying for you, darlin’. Thank God you and your baby are all right.”

We are taken to a real hospital. It isn’t my time to be born yet, but when I am, I have a bright future in front of me. I was meant to be here. God doesn’t make mistakes. 

~***~ The End~***~

"You wrote a very touching story filled with emotion, love, and controversy. A very much needed as a wake-up call.  It does a good job showing the tragedy of abortion." - Heather Schuldt

"I just wept reading your story. Please don't ever stop writing; You make an awesome difference. This story is your best." - Charlotte Thorpe

 

Childhood Memories

Once upon a time in the land of Johnson City, Tennessee, I was born to a very young couple. I was their second child. I have no memories of being in the playpen while my mother slept, but I heard it for years about the incident. The joke, or rather, the yoke is on me. While my mother slept, my sister pulled out every food item possible out of the kitchen and dumped it on top of me in the play pen. Does this sound normal to you? What could have driven my sister to do that to me, a defenseless toddler?

I remember in the early 1970’s living in the suburbs of Detroit. We lived in a two story house on Greenview on a corner lot across from a park. This was a convenient location for me and my 3 siblings, giving us close access for a place to play. It was also convenient for the long-haired hippies who sat on the side of our property facing the park. They never interfered with our playing as we raced up the sidewalk on our bikes and Big Wheels or chased after the ice-cream truck. We were free to roam the streets and allies at night while we played games with the other children on our block. One can imagine that we learned how to be real hellions in this environment. The local kids would laugh and make fun of us as we chased our youngest brother through the park. He was making the transition from diapers to big boy pants and dashed from the house naked – on two occasions. That was something to laugh about for years.

I soon discovered the blonde and freckled-faced Timmy O’Malley who lived two houses down from us. His wit and tongue were as sharp as he was cute. We also took advantage of the five foot pool in the O’Malley’s back yard.

We discovered Devil’s Night, the night before Halloween.  We learned it was a tradition in which kids went around throwing eggs at passing cars, soaping windows, and setting dog poop on fire at someone’s front door, then ringing the door bell. When the owner came out to stamp out the fire, well, you know what happened next. Afterwards, I felt like it was a stupid ritual that made me feel like a little hoodlum. There was no honor in messing up people’s houses or cars or scrawling dirty words in the street.

The second bad thing we learned to do was during the winter season we would grab the rear bumper of a passing car and go skiing down the road. The driver would fish-tale back and forth to force us to let go. We thought it was fun; we never thought of the consequences.

The third thing that we learned is to never start a fire when you are under the porch. This could lead to catching the house on fire, as evidence of the large bubble in the kitchen floor. And it does tend to call attention to oneself with the fire trucks and all. I cannot take credit for that one.

There came a time when I was initiated into the “Big Girls’ Club” which only consisted of my sister and a neighborhood girl. They took me to the basement, blindfolded me, and then stuck my hand in a jar of goop. They said that it was the guts of a person. I reacted in fear and started whimpering. It turned out to be a jar of peanut butter.

A couple of years down the road, my mother’s marriage failed to my stepfather. She was alone to support 4 children on her own. Rumors spread through the neighborhood that we were being foreclosed on. Soon afterwards some kids broke into our house. Then one day, a group of boys trespassed into our back yard. I yelled at them to leave. They climbed up the apple trees. All of the sudden they started pelting me with the apples from our own trees. I frantically ran up the steps of the back porch to enter the house for protection. To my horror, my sister locked the door and stood face to face with me as she smiled wickedly. The more I screamed and pounded, the more she laughed. My fear caused me to pound on the glass of the door until my fist shattered it in pieces. As soon as I demolished the glass, the boys scattered off the property. We later blamed the broken window on the boys who threw the apples at me. This incident was seared into my brain for life. It begs an answer to the question: who was the real bully?

 

The Dragonfly Brooch

It was a boring Thursday night that I found myself alone with the TV. I turned on the streaming internet feature to our Roku device and selected the Facebook app. Why did I even bother since it didn’t give me full access to Facebook features like a computer did? I clicked on the photo albums of my brother in Michigan. Wow! He had many pictures of autumn woods with trees in gold and orange; it looked like he was hiking. Then I looked once again at his Christmas photos of my sister Camile. Double wow! Boy, has she gained weight! She was dressed in a burgundy colored velvet pants suit with pearls. Who dresses like that on Christmas day? Again I got that dreadful feeling of being switched at birth. She prized those pearls since they came from our grandmother who had  worn them in her casket at the funeral home. Just thinking about that gave me the willies!

Funerals bring families together whether the relationships are close or whether everyone is happy to live a million miles apart. Everyone gives the affectionate hugs, smiles, and cheerful greetings, but sometimes it’s just a let-me-go-through-this-and-get-back-home motion. At the viewing, there sat my rich uncle who made his money in the office supply business, sold it to a Japanese company, and now lives in South Florida near a golf course. He never communicates with any family, but there he was for his mother, a visit too late. And there was Camile, cozying up to him on the front bench. Birds of a feather, I thought.

After my grandmother’s funeral, Camile, my brother Stan and I dropped off our brother Louis at the airport. We headed straight for a restaurant with a bar in the Nashville area. Since I wanted to fit in, I let my brother order a drink for me. He introduced me to the Cosmopolitan. It tasted great. I sipped on this fruity concoction while listening to my siblings on either side of me. The conversation soon took a turn for the worse as I felt like I had paid admission to listen to the audio version of Fifty Shades of Grey. I felt as though I were on a sinking ship. I sipped on my Cosmo in silence while my ears were assaulted with lewd remarks. When Stan saw that I drained my glass, he promptly ordered me another one which I gladly accepted. After time had lapsed, we figured it was time to go back to the house that my mother and grandmother shared. I got down from the bar stool and found that I had difficulty walking due to the 2 drinks my brother paid for.

“Just hang on to the back of my jacket,” he told me. I did, thank God.

Once we were on the road to Monterey, the alcohol took over. I belched loudly and laughed hysterically. My siblings looked at one another and laughed at me. We came up with a motto, “What happens in Nashville stays in Nashville”.

The next morning, the atmosphere was heavy with grief again. Camile and my mother asked me to go through our grandmother’s things to see if there was something to take home with me to remember her by.

Grandmother and I were about the same size. She had visited me twice in the Florida Panhandle. I loaned her my peach colored tank and shorts set to go to the beach in Destin. At 82 years old she still had some auburn color in her hair. I took pictures of her standing in the surf of the emerald colored Gulf of Mexico. One photo had her foot in it with brightly colored toe nails. I will always remember that she called me her “little country singer”. She taught me how to play the guitar. My first song was “The Crawdad Song” (You Get a Line and I’ll Get a Pole). She was the one who held our family together when there was an emergency. I even remember when she picked me up from school when I was very young. She had worn dark sunglasses which changed her appearance, like a spy on a mission. Since I didn’t recognize her, I didn’t get in the car. She had to coax me. I chuckled about that through the years.

The day after the funeral, Camile approached me with the pearls that my grandmother wore in her casket at the viewing. I shook my head and refused them. Camile must have thought, more for me.

 I stood there at my grandmother’s closet and remember smelling her clothes. She had good taste in fashion: not too fancy and not too dressed down. Some of her tastes leaned toward tropical since she wintered in Florida for many years. There was a skirt set in a deep blue tropical leaf print with a dragonfly brooch on it. I grabbed it from the closet. The brooch was a pave style with clear crystals. A large crystal was the “head” while the curved body was in a polished silver tone. It probably came from Avon, but I thought I struck gold.

Years down the road I discovered that my grandmother’s dragonfly brooch was captured in a photo when she posed with my mother in the living room after a day at church. If Camile could see this, she would be so envious! Now it is the secret that I keep: a piece of jewelry of my grandma’s that is captured in time, jewelry that captures the essence of what she loved and who she was. My sister will most likely never know since we have drifted further apart through the years. The brooch rests in my jewelry box while my memories of my grandmother at the beach are visited in my mind.

 

How to Write a Memoir: 6 Creative Ways to Tell a Powerful Story

by M. Shannon Hernandez, contributor to The Write Life

Whether you curl up with memoirs on a frequent basis or pick one up every now and again, you know powerful memoirs have the capacity to take you, as a reader, for an exhilarating ride.
I’m a connoisseur of memoirs. In the past seven years, I might have read three books that weren’t part of the memoir genre. Not only do I devour memoirs, I also have written my own, and I coach memoir writers on turning their memories into manuscripts.

By dissecting memoirs from both the reader’s and writer’s perspectives, I’ve identified common elements that powerful, compelling memoirs all share. If you’re planning to write a memoir, here’s how to make sure your story takes your readers on a journey they won’t forget.

1. Narrow your focus

Your memoir should be written as if the entire book is a snapshot of one theme of your life. Or consider it a pie, where your life represents the whole pie, and you are writing a book about a teeny-tiny sliver.

Your memoir is not an autobiography. The difference is that an autobiography spans your entire life, and a memoir focuses on one particular moment or series of moments around a theme. You want your readers to walk away knowing you, and that one experience, on a much deeper level.

Perhaps you are familiar with Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. This memoir focuses on Frank’s life as a first-generation immigrant child in Brooklyn. Angela is his mother, and much of the storyline focuses on her and how Frank saw her, as well as the role she played in trying to hold the entire family together.

2. Include more than just your story

I know I just instructed you to narrow down your focus, but we need to think bigger in our writing pursuits.

For example, if Hillary Clinton wrote a memoir about raising a child in the White House, she would be pulling in tidbits about how she handled the media, who she let visit her daughter during sleepovers, and how she navigated the politics of parenting during her time in the White House.

Likewise, if Madonna was writing a memoir about reinventing herself after 20 years away from the public spotlight, she most likely would include what it felt like to return to the music scene and how she continued to travel and perform while raising her children.

How does this apply to you? Imagine you are writing a memoir about your three-week trek through the Himalayan Mountains. While the focus is on your trip, as well as what you learned about yourself along the way, it would be wise to include other details as well.

You could describe the geography and history of the area, share interesting snippets about the people and donkeys you interacted with, and discuss your exploration of life-and-death questions as you progressed along your arduous journey.

Your readers want to know about you, but it’s the backstory and vivid details that make for a powerful memoir.

3. Tell the truth

One of the best ways to write a powerful memoir is to be honest and genuine. This is often tricky, because we don’t want to hurt or upset the people (our family and friends!) we’ve written into our books. But it’s important that you tell the truth — even if it makes your journey as an author more difficult.

When I wrote my memoir, Breaking the Silence: My Final Forty Days as a Public School Teacher, I knew I had a major dilemma: If I opted to tell the whole truth, I would pretty much ensure I would never get a job with New York City Public Schools again.

But I also knew teachers, parents and administrators needed to hear why great teachers are leaving education in droves and why the current educational system is not doing what’s right for our nation’s kids. I wrote my book with brutal honesty, and it has paid off with my readers — and is bringing national attention to what is happening behind closed school doors.

One more note on honesty: Memoirs explore the concept of truth as seen through your eyes. Don’t write in a snarky manner or with a bitter tone. The motivation for writing a memoir shouldn’t be to exact revenge or whine or seek forgiveness; it should simply be to share your experience.

Don’t exaggerate or bend the truth in your memoir. Your story, the unique one that you hold and cherish, is enough. There is no need to fabricate or embellish.

4. Put your readers in your shoes

Powerful writers show, not tell. And for a memoir writer, this is essential to your success, because you must invite your reader into your perspective so she can draw her own conclusions.

The best way to do this is to unfold the story before your reader’s eyes by using vivid language that helps him visualize each scene.

Perhaps you want to explain that your aunt was a “raging alcoholic.” If you say this directly, your description will likely come across as judgmental and critical. Instead, paint a picture for your audience so they come to this conclusion on their own. You might write something like this:

“Vodka bottles littered her bedroom, and I had learned, the hard way, not to knock on her door until well after noon. Most days she didn’t emerge into our living quarters until closer to sunset, and I would read her facial expression to gauge whether or not I should inquire about money — just so I could eat one meal before bedtime.”

5. Employ elements of fiction to bring your story to life

I like to think of the people in memoirs as characters. A great memoir pulls you into their lives: what they struggle with, what they are successful at and what they wonder about.

Many of the best memoir writers focus on a few key characteristics of their characters, allowing the reader to get to know each one in depth. Your readers must be able to love your characters or hate them, and you can’t do that by providing too much detail.

Introduce intriguing setting details and develop a captivating plot from your story. Show your readers the locations you describe and evoke emotions within them. They need to experience your story, almost as if is was their own.

6. Create an emotional journey
Don’t aim to knock your readers’ socks off. Knock off their pants, shirt, shoes and underwear too! Leave your readers with their mouths open in awe, or laughing hysterically, or crying tears of sympathy and sadness — or all three.
Take them on an emotional journey which will provoke them to read the next chapter, wonder about you well after they finish the last page, and tell their friends and colleagues about your book. The best way to evoke these feelings in your readers is to connect your emotions, as the protagonist, with pivotal events happening throughout your narrative arc.
Most of us are familiar with the narrative arc. In school, our teachers used to draw a “mountain” and once we reached the precipice, we were to fill in the climatic point of the book or story. Your memoir is no different: You need to create enough tension to shape your overall story, as well as each individual chapter, with that narrative arc.
That moment when you realized your husband had an affair? Don’t just say you were sad, angry or devastated. Instead, you might say something like:
“I learned of my husband’s affair when the February bank statements arrived and I realized that in one month’s time, he had purchased a ring and two massages at a high-end spa.

Those gifts weren’t mine. He was using our money to woo another lady and build a new life. I curled up in a ball and wept for three hours — I had been demoted to the other woman.”

Will you write a memoir?

When you follow these guidelines while writing your memoir, you will captivate your audience and leave them begging for more. But more importantly, you will share your own authentic story with the world.

Have you written or are you planning to write a memoir?

A Gift Multiplied - WINNER of the Writer 750 May Challenge

It was around the time that I turned twelve years old when my father was killed during an uprising in Jerusalem. We were visiting family during Passover when zealots started rioting against the Romans who have occupied my land and claimed it as part of their empire.

“THE WORLD IS ROME!” shouted a proud Roman centurion, “You will pay your taxes as declared by the divine Caesar.”

 This proclamation only angered the mob. Tempers flared as the Jews retorted with hateful shouting. They hurled stones at the soldiers. The massive throng pressed my father against the small cavalry. There was no escape as my father was trampled beneath the hooves of a soldier’s horse. He lived only a few hours until he went to his eternal home. I was robbed of my only parent, not even given the chance to speak to him before his passing. Forsaken. Broken. Where was my God when I needed him?

Fortunately, my father had a brother who was kind enough to take me in. Uncle Abijah lived in the city of Tabgha. He taught me that I should forgive the soldiers responsible for my father’s death since God forgave me of my trespasses. I escaped my grief by helping my uncle tend to his flock of goats every day. My eyes traveled to the mountains of Gilead that loomed high above the Sea of Galilee off to the distance. It was a balm to my soul.

One day Uncle Abijah sent me to buy food for dinner. He reached in his clay money jar and gave me some coins to make the purchase. I stared at the coins in my hand while I strode through the dusty ally into the noisy marketplace. The stamped image of Caesar reminded me again of those overbearing occupiers in my land. When would God deliver us from these oppressors?

After purchasing five loaves and two fishes, I noticed that people were chattering and getting excited that the Galilean had arrived in the city. I found myself swept along with the crowd, curious to see for myself what this holy Man was all about. I had heard that He gave a blind man back his sight, that he raised a girl from the dead. Too bad he wasn’t around when my father died. Why did it have to be so, that others got their miracles but not me? I felt a pang of sorrow. My feet felt heavy as I tread up the mountain along with the thousands of people who wanted to be ministered to.

Soon the masses of people sat, waiting for the Galilean to speak. I was busy looking around me until I heard the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted”. Suddenly it was as if I was the only audience on that mountain. His words became alive within me. “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be the children of your Father in heaven.” My heart began to break again. This time it was breaking in order to heal. Love and hope swelled within me in waves. Tears coursed down my cheeks. It was at this time that Jesus looked at me. There were thousands of people there, but He saw just me, a small orphaned boy.

Later after the sermon, the people wouldn’t leave. Jesus asked, “Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?”

His disciples looked dumbfounded – one answering that it would take a whole year’s wages to feed them. I remembered that I had purchased some food before walking up the mountain. I pulled my dinner out of the cloth wrap and looked at it. Could God use my gift?

Andrew, a disciple of Jesus, saw me. He helped me to my feet and proclaimed that he had found some food. “But how can this help feed a crowd of so many?” he asked.

Jesus asked them to bring the loaves and fishes to Him. He lifted His eyes to the heavenly Father and gave thanks. Then he told His disciples to distribute them to all of the people. Miraculously the loaves and the fish multiplied to feed the thousands. I watched as my little dinner was passed out to the throng and was enjoyed by many. When everyone had his fill, baskets were passed around to collect what was left over. There were twelve baskets full!

As the crowd disbursed, I was left there wondering how I was going to carry all of this food back home. James and John came over to me to ask if I needed help. Soon each disciple carried a basket to my Uncle Abijah’s house. I was so glad that it wasn’t left for me to explain this one.

 Want more stories by Glenda Reynolds? Go to Write On (an Amazon writers' platform) and read Short & Twisted Tales. http://amzn.to/2iS2fId

Glenda's 2014 Year in Review

Good things happened in 2014. 

• I made many friends in the writing industry. 
• I am now a published writer of short stories. 
• I also have to accept change and hope that it is change for the better in finding a new employer. 

But through it all, I have been BLESSED. God is good. 

 "May God silence the voices that tell me to settle for something other than God's best".