Putting My Memoir, The Red Kitchen, Into The World by Barbara Clarke

How do you decide what genre of a book you want to write?

For many novelists, it isn’t a question, although some contemporary writers are doing a bit of a blend—part-bio intertwined with fiction.

 The journey of my recent memoir, The Red Kitchen, was long. For six years it was a novel (thinly veiled and constantly under construction)—things happened to a woman named Julia (my doppelganger). And finally, help came in an email from Lucy Ellmann whose novel Ducks Newburyport was shortlisted for the Booker prize in 2019. “Let the form emerge as you get more into the book,” she wrote. “Every book has its rightful form.”

With that, I scrapped what I’d written and wrote the memoir.

 For the nine months and several more years while I edited and found a publisher, I was told—and still believe—it was okay to tell my story. It was about one woman’s life but not unlike the lives of many other women (and some men). It was about families, growing up, then really growing up, a life-changing event in Kenya, and how to write a book worth reading. Honest, sad, funny, and possibly inspiring—if I might use such a grand word. And, it turns out, award winning. It won first prize in the CIBA Journey competition in 2021.

 On publication day when my own box of books arrived, my life took a surprising turn. Instead of feeling total joy, I felt something closer to “holy crap.” There I was, naked as a Jaybird—the good, bad, and reconciled between a beautiful cover and positive endorsements from writers I admired. It wasn’t just my life but also about members of my family. Most of the names had been changed; only a few characters in the memoir were still alive who might take umbrage. But these were not the people on my mind at that moment. It was the person who might buy the book.

Kind of late to be thinking about that ,you would be correct in thinking.

Before the book was published I wanted a few men—good readers and thinkers—to have a look. Was this strictly a “woman’s book” and too critical of men? It never came up in our chats. What about sex—mine as a teenager and as an adult? Is it okay to write about it? One trusted friend couldn’t stop laughing when I posed the question. “I think the sex cat is out of the bag,” she said. “It’s 2020 not 1820.”

 I want to forewarn budding memoirists who have a story to tell. You should—we need your story—but you need to know it can be a weird experience. Some readers might wish I’d put a “sock in it.” Some will be too polite to mention certain parts, and others will want to talk about what it meant to them.

 I’ve learned more than I ever dreamed about publishing a book—it’s a long process and a lot of work. And it’s expensive and time consuming getting your book into the hands of readers. And, now when asked “What’s your book about?” rather than give my elevator speech, I tell them what my book is about is whatever they, as the reader, decides. It’s out of my hands.

 I’ve given up on what almost anyone thinks of me—save my kids, friends, what’s left of my immediate family, our cat Violet, and a few people who are in the book. Old friends have called or emailed, including Anna, who has a whole chapter to herself. We are still life-long friends and even more connected through our story.

 That vulnerable feeling comes and goes, just like the other rhythms of life. But the day I received a review from a woman thanking me for writing The Red Kitchen and what it meant to her, the reward was well worth the work and the risk.