I’ll do all manner of jobs to support my writing addiction. One of my favourites is to help people record their own life stories. A few years back I had the privilege of travelling to 15 rural libraries in a whirlwind tour across central Alberta. While the library program offered a variety of writing classes, people signed up in droves for Write Your Memoir.

When I asked what drew them to that particular class, participants said things like “I’ve had stuff happen in my life and I think I should write it down,” or “I want to write my parents’ stories before it’s too late.” In a workshop at Ponoka, one woman said, “I’d rather do anything than write—clean toilets, change a tire. I don’t know why I’m here!” We all burst out laughing. She wrote and wrote and wrote. Then she came to another class in a different town and wrote some more. She couldn’t help herself.

We started off each workshop by finishing the sentence, I will always remember… I encouraged people to write down the first words that popped into their heads. This small exercise, intended to be quick, created a frenzy in the room every time. People couldn’t stop at that sentence; they needed to share the whole story. “I will always remember my last drink; my son’s phone call on the morning of 9/11; those rough beige stockings held up by suspender belts that hung over our shoulders; the first time I had to shoot a gopher and how much I hated killing.”

And we listened. Every time one person told a story it triggered a memory for someone else. One woman described how she never knew her name was Phyllis until she started Grade 1. All that time she thought her name was Cookie.

We passed around family sayings and folklore. Did you know that when you see deer on the road, you merely need to point your signal light in the direction you want the deer to go? Or if you eat your porridge your neck will stay white? Or you must never cut your toenails on Sunday or bad things will happen.

From there, we simply put pen to paper, drawing upon memories of funny, ordinary, and sometimes heartbreaking events. By the time everyone had a turn to share what they’d written, our time was up, and I’d pack up my gear and move to the next town. 

Looking back, those real-life story classes taught me a great deal about my own writing, which is as far from memoir as east from west. The Shore Girl, my new novel, tells the story of a young girl named Rebee who gets dragged from place to place by her broken mom. Before Rebee, I'd written about elephant trainers, rig workers, fleeing grandmas, child pornographers, dying children. On the surface, these stories have nothing to do with me and my quotidian life. I grew up merrily in a quiet suburban house, got married, had kids, held jobs with ordinary descriptions. I’ve never even been close to an elephant. 

And yet there it is, the elephant on the page. Snippets of my past, reimagined and woven into plot lines and settings and characters’ hearts. The smell of my mother’s talcum powder. An overheard squabble. A stranger’s look of disgust. That feeling of terror before jumping off the high board. That moment I stumbled upon something destroyed. Or something created. Page after page of my trying to make sense of the world, of my trying to wrap my head around the big stuff like good and evil. Love. Hate. 

It wasn’t until after I’d completed that teaching stint that I realized just how similar we were, the teacher and her students. I couldn’t see it at first. My memoir classes had been filled with people who had never written before, nor had any desire to publish, while I viewed publishing credits as life’s markers. Few were interested in trying their hand at fiction, while I’d spent a good chunk of my life struggling with the craft. Yet there we were, side by side, each needing stories as much as air, each searching for meaning in life’s mystery and feeling compelled to explain it.   

Those classes have stuck with me. It thrills me to know that at least a few dozen participants have decided to keep writing. They still gather together, two years after we first met—in churches, libraries, homes. They meet to share their new writing about life on the farm, or life after the war, or life during the past week.

While I fell in love with the whole bunch, I’ll forever have a soft spot for little Alex, my youngest student, brought by his mom, just nine years old. As we went around the room, and everyone read what they’d written, Alex could hardly wait for one story to finish so he could listen to the next. He didn’t tell me to zip it when I blathered on about writing tips, but I know he wished I would. All he wanted was another story. I get that!  It’s all I want, too.

Fran Kimmel is author of the just-published novel The Shore Girl. Fran’s stories have appeared in literary journals across Canada and have twice been included in Journey Prize anthologies. Fran writes and teaches in central Alberta where she lives with her husband and overly enthusiastic silver lab.