A Conversation with Sari Botton

There are a few women on my radar who are spearheading a reinvention of the way we talk about personal narrative and memoir—and Sari Botton is one of them. She is a seasoned editor and the author of the memoir And You May Find Yourself... Confessions of a Late-Blooming Gen-X Weirdo.

In our conversation below, we discuss everything from the ethics of memoir and how to navigate writing about other people to how different editors define what an essay is. She raises some revolutionary points about owning our stories and the kind of language we permit ourselves to use in describing them.

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SARI BOTTON is the author of the memoir-in-essays, And You May Find Yourself...Confessions of a Late-Blooming Gen-X Weirdo. She is a contributing editor and columnist at Catapult, the former Essays Editor for Longreads, and a former columnist for the Rumpus, where she interviewed established and new writers from Cheryl Strayed to Samantha Irby.

Sari edited the New York Times-bestselling Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York and Never Can Say Goodbye: Writers on Their Unshakable Love for New York. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, New York Magazine, the Village Voice, Harper's Bazaar, Marie Claire, More, and the Rumpus.

In addition to teaching creative nonfiction at Bay Path University and Catapult, Sari is the publisher and editor of three Substack publications: Oldster Magazine, Adventures in Journalism, and Memoir Monday

KARIN GUTMAN: You’ve written about how you’ve navigated writing about other people, as well as interviewing authors about this thorny topic in your Rumpus column Conversations with Writers Braver Than Me.
 
How did you handle this issue with your memoir And You May Find Yourself?
 
SARI BOTTON: When it came time to actually write my book, I realized I needed to first write a vomit draft, what I call a ‘warts and all’ vomit draft with everything in it. All the bad stuff. And then once it was out of my body, out of my head on the page, only then could I blur, subtract and edit.
 
I did it. I handed in the book. That book was edited.
 
And then I went back to my editor, and I said, You know what? I have to do that again. I’ve got to do another level of extraction. I said, I'm not going to get to publish my book in 2021. It's going to be 2022. And she said, Fine. So, I went back and scrubbed it of any unnecessary, inflammatory details. I further blurred people. 
 
KARIN:  Do you feel like these changes diluted the story at all?
 
SARI:  It's still to me all true. I changed so many identifying characteristics. I really did my best to make it so that if one of these awful people who I dated read it, they'd know it was them but nobody else would know unless they already knew the story. I tended to only change your name if you were a jerk. I showed the people I care about the pieces they were in, and said, Is this okay with you? How do you want me to refer to you? Do you want me to change your name?
 
KARIN:  The ethics of memoir are deeply personal. Given how challenging these lines are for you, did you ever consider fictionalizing your story?
 
SARI:  You should write fiction because you're interested in fiction and the art and mechanics of it, not because you're trying to avoid getting in trouble for writing about your life. People will see right through that. I have an idea for a novel and a list of ideas for short stories. But I want to do those things because I want to play God with characters who do interesting things, not because I want to write a story about my relationship with people in my life in a way that they will not recognize themselves, because that's impossible.
 
KARIN:  What about a pseudonym?
 
SARI:  I created a pseudonym for myself. She has a Gmail and a Twitter account. There were a few reasons I didn't publish under that name. One is that I would be really pissed off; I have spent more than 30 years building my platform. For me to then have to hide behind a pseudonym and build that pseudonym’s platform… I wasn't up for that. There’s just something about needing to own my personal story.
 
KARIN:  Can you give an example of how you handled some of the more incendiary material?
 
SARI:  There's a piece in the book about my struggle with body image and weight and eating disorders. In the ‘warts and all’ vomit draft version, a relative makes a comment on my butt when I'm seven, and it completely traumatizes me.
 
I revised that chapter to say that “the adults around me” were really to blame. I realized that my babysitters were on diets. My teachers were on diets and made comments about their bodies and other kids’ bodies. My aunts, my uncles. My grandparents were on the Pritikin Diet, and we all knew about it. It really was the culture. 
 
So, I pulled back on my book to the point where I could make the stories, especially the most difficult ones, about cultural phenomena. Yeah, that relative was a big part of it, but it wasn't necessary for this particular story.
 
KARIN:  In the introduction you write that the purpose of this book is to say simply, “I was here, I lived.” I found that refreshing.
 
You also refer to the series of essays as “confessional” which I find can be used to describe memoir in a derogatory way. What does that word mean to you?
 
SARI:  A lot of the rules of memoir, and of all writing, were written by straight white men.
 
I just read one of Annie Ernaux’s books, and it was 60 pages. She calls herself an “Ethnographer of the Self.” I love that she won the Nobel Prize for that work, and I am all for ethnography of the self.
 
I think we need to be rewriting all the rules of all writing, including memoir and essays. I reject the idea that you can't be a victim. Roxane Gay has written about this in her memoir, Hunger: “It took a long time, but I prefer 'victim' to 'survivor' now. I don't want to diminish the gravity of what happened. I don't want to pretend I'm on some triumphant, uplifting journey. I don't want to pretend that everything is okay. I'm living with what happened, moving forward without forgetting, moving forward without pretending I am unscarred.”
 
I just had an argument the other day with a writer whom I love. She says, “There are no victims in essay and memoir.” I was like, “Yeah, we're rewriting those rules. I mean, there are victims.” 
 
I was in a writing group with some people and I stopped being in the writing group, because I wrote a story about something that happened to me when I was seven. And someone said, “You sound like a victim.” And then someone else was like, “Yeah, you don't want to sound like a victim.” I said, “I was seven. I was a victim.” Bullies have made all the rules. Bullies don't want to read victimization stories, but other victims do. 
 
When I was at Longreads, I wrote a blog post about how Elizabeth Wurtzel made it okay to write ‘Ouch’. I feel very strongly that when you've been hurt, it's okay to write ‘Ouch’. I hate false bravado.
 
I also like confessions. The reason I chose to call these confessions instead of essays is because some of the pieces in the book don't really rise to the standards of an essay collection. This is a memoir in episodes, in vignettes. I'm confessing to things that I haven't been allowed to say, that I've wanted to say, that aren't all flattering. And so, I call them confessions.
 
KARIN: You have devoted your career to personal narrative, both as a writer and as an editor.
 
SARI:  It's absolutely true. I've been involved in this since 1991.
 
KARIN:  You’ve been witness to the whole trajectory since the memoir boom of the 90s. Where do you think things are headed? 
 
SARI:  Early on, there was Prozac Nation. There was The Liar's Club. There was Angela's Ashes. There was The Kiss, Kathryn Harrison's memoir about her affair with her father. That was the beginning of the 90s memoir boom. 
 
It's been a boom bust, boom bust kind of thing.
 
Where it's headed is more previously marginalized voices are being shared. I've noticed a lot of memoirs that are written in fragments. Maggie Smith has one coming out. She's a poet. Abigail Thomas writes in fragments. It feels like she's always been writing in fragments from her first memoir, Safekeeping.
 
I tend to think unless your memoir is about a very specific turn of events, a straight narrative can be really boring because the connective tissue in between the important points in your life can make it blah.
 
I'm just finishing this memoir, which I absolutely love by Kimberly Harrington, But You Seemed So Happy. It's about the dissolution of her marriage. She alternates personal essays with humor essays, like she would have in McSweeney's or Shouts and Murmurs in the New Yorker. It's all about her marriage, but it's broken up. I've been more drawn toward episodic memoirs.
 
KARIN:  More like a memoir-in-essays?
 
SARI:  Yes. The ‘essay’ term is very broad. I have a larger understanding of what a personal essay is, but there are people who are sticklers.
 
KARIN:  What does it mean to fit the standards of an essay?
 
SARI:  I've worked with colleagues who feel very strongly that a personal essay needs to have a real argument in it.
 
KARIN:  What does that mean exactly?
 
SARI:  You're making a point with the essay, you're not just telling a story. I like to let the reader figure out what the point is. A lot of publications require an essay to have at its center an argument that you then back up with data and sources, even if it's just a very personal story.
 
I wrote an op-ed for The New York Times about when I got hit by a car. I was so stunned that people in New York were so helpful to me. The editors wanted me to bring in another instance in which somebody was hit by a car and not treated the same way as me. Also, to bring in statistics. Now that's an op-ed which is a different kind of essay, but there are editors at a lot of publications that want you to do that. With a personal essay, they want you to use your anecdote to illustrate a point. By my standards, the pieces in my book are personal essays, but again, I have a much broader definition than some editors.
 
KARIN:  What about Modern Love?
 
SARI:  I think they look for the Modern Love piece to really have a point at the center of it, even if it's not spelled out. Whereas some of mine are more like light anecdotes.
 
KARIN:  But I imagine that you, as an editor of essays, would want to know Why are you telling me this?
 
SARI:  That has to be inherent, but it doesn't have to be spelled out.
 
KARIN:  What is the difference between a long-form essay and a shorter form essay? Other than the length?
 
SARI:  My second Modern Love is 1,500 or 1,600 words, but there's a 5,000-word version of it in the book. I first wrote the 5,000-word version long before I had a book deal. I struggled to sell it and then I thought, I’ll try and do a Modern Love version. I did, and I sold it.
 
Some of it has to do with where you want to publish it. A great exercise is to have different versions of your piece that can go in different places and also amplify different aspects of the same story. 
 
It's harder to publish long-form right now. There are fewer and fewer venues. These days, Longreads is primarily a curation site with occasional long-form personal essays; where I used to publish three a week, they're now publishing maybe one a month. And Catapult just folded. It's hard to publish a 5,000-word essay, unless it's in your book. So, it might be worth your while to come up with a 1,200-word version for the Washington Post or the Huffington Post—a shorter version that could maybe even help you get a book deal, and then you put the longer version in the book.
 
KARIN:  What is your advice to writers who have a story they’re feeling reluctant to tell?
 
SARI:  I encourage you to write the version that you can't publish first. There's something valuable in getting it out of your head and out of your body. Something happens when it's a secret in your body, you don't have any perspective on it. And you can't until you get it out of your body and onto the page where you can see it. 
 
Then once it’s out of your body, take a break from it. Give yourself a couple of weeks, then come back to it. Let yourself have the experience of having it out of your body. There's something that happens in that early draft, some kind of neurological thing that permits you to gain perspective, that you can't have when it's just this thing you're not allowed to tell.



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To learn more about Sari Botton visit her site.

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Oldster Magazine explores what it means to travel through time in a human body—of any gender, at every phase of life. It focuses on the good, the bad, and the ugly we experience with each milestone, starting early in life. It’s about the experience of getting older, and what that means at different junctures.

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Adventures in Journalism features the highlights and lowlights* (*mostly lowlights) from one Gen X lady writer's rather circuitous career path.

Looking for a quick route toward success as a writer? Allow Sari Botton to demonstrate what not to do, over the course of 30-plus hilarity-(in hindsight)-filled years.

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Each week, the editors of certain literary publications select their very favorite new personal essay or memoir piece, and you can find them all collected in the Memoir Monday newsletter—along with details about upcoming readings.

Inside features: First Person Singular features original published essays, and The Lit Lab offers perspectives on craft, publishing, publicity, and more.

A Conversation with Rebecca Woolf

I am excited to share the thought-provoking conversation I had with Rebecca Woolf, author of All of This: A Memoir of Death and Desire. We talked about the return to long-form blogging on Substack, the question of boundaries and secrets and shame when writing memoir, and reinventing story structure through a female lens. This woman needs to do a TEDTalk!

Rebecca will be signing books at the grand opening of Zibby's Bookshop on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica the weekend of February 18th & 19th. Come on down to check it out and meet some other local authors including Leslie Lehr, Terri Cheney, Hope Edelman, Claire Bidwell Smith, Annabelle Gurwitch, among others, including Zibby Owens herself!

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REBECCA WOOLF has worked as a freelance writer since age 16 when she became a leading contributor to the hit 90s book series, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul.

Since then, she has contributed to numerous publications, websites and anthologies, most notably her own award-winning personal blog, Girl’s Gone Child, which attracted millions of unique visitors worldwide. 

She has appeared on CNN and NPR and has been featured in The New York Times, Time Magazine and New York Mag.

She lives in Los Angeles with her son and three daughters.

After years of struggling in a tumultuous marriage, Rebecca Woolf was finally ready to leave her husband. Two weeks after telling him she wanted a divorce, he was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. Four months later, at the age of 44, he died.

In her memoir All of This, she chronicles the months before her husband’s death—and her rebirth after he was gone. With rigorous honesty and incredible awareness, she reflects on the end of her marriage: how her husband’s illness finally gave her the space to make peace with his humanity and her own.

KARIN GUTMAN:  You began writing as a blogger and now you’re on Substack. What do you think of this relatively new platform for writers?
 
REBECCA WOOLF:  I just posted my first post this morning, and I had this feeling of, Oh my God, am I going to do this again? So many mixed feelings. It's a really interesting moment to talk about memoir because I’ve been doing it all my life, obviously, but I'm going back to my roots of blogging.
 
KARIN:  All of the people I’m following on Substack were original bloggers.
 
REBECCA:  I think there's a return. We're seeing the social media platforms implode and realizing that our content doesn't belong to us when it's on other websites. It's different when it's in your own space, and I think it's brilliant.
 
KARIN:  What was it like when you were first starting out?
 
REBECCA:  I started writing memoir in my teens. I wrote for a book series called Chicken Soup for the Soul, which was a very big in the 90s. I wrote for The Teenage Soul. I submitted a story in middle school. It was published and then they had me submit more pieces. I was writing about my personal life, so all my heartbreaks ended up in books. Everything that's ever happened to me that's been painful has been written about and publicly displayed for my whole life.
 
KARIN:  What have you learned about boundaries, if anything?
 
REBECCA:  My job is a litmus test for the people who are and aren't in my life anymore. When your job is to write about your personal life, you are a liability to the people who love you. There are people who have been with me for their whole lives, and my kids are very used to it, but yeah, that's definitely a question. It's like, where are the boundaries?
 
But that's how I started, as a blogger in 2001. I didn't go to college. I went straight to work for The Teenage Soul series at 18. I wrote, edited, and ghost wrote pretty much the entirety of three different books. It was just me under 15 different names.
 
KARIN:  Wow, really?
 
REBECCA:  They needed content and they didn't want it to seem like it was one person writing a whole book. Those books, by the way, make 10s of millions of dollars and contributors made $200. It was my job to go through submissions for years, and basically my boss ended up saying, I like the way you write better. So, I would just write stuff under different names. I had a whole series of a teenage boy and a teenage girl writing back and forth to each other, and I was both of them. I was writing about my personal stories under my name. That was nonfiction. But I was writing under pseudonyms about other issues. And that was fiction.
 
KARIN:  How did your writing career evolve from there?
 
REBECCA:  I started my blog Girl’s Gone Child in 2005, a few months after my son was born. I got pregnant unexpectedly at 23 with a person that I barely knew, married in Vegas, and suddenly went from being this single partying, traveling person to a married mother with a child in Los Angeles. None of my friends were nowhere near having kids.
 
I started my blog as a way of hopefully finding my people, or if not, just talking about my experience. Anytime I feel alone or isolated or like there's nobody who understands me, I write about it, because when you do that you actually find people who do. That's always been my bat signal to the world—writing about my discomfort or loneliness.
 
Shame keeps a lot of people from writing. One of my first stories was called I Kiss Like A Horse, which I wrote for Chicken Soup based on the fact this boy who I had kissed in 10th grade told everyone that I kissed like a horse. Not only did that rumor mortify me as a 14 or 15-year-old, but what I did was, I wrote an entire essay about it that was published in 15 different languages worldwide. So, I took a moment that would have otherwise been mortifying, and I said to myself, This makes me feel like shit, which means it's going to help someone else. That has been the heart of my work my whole life.
 
KARIN:  What a great way to deal with shame. What was your angle?
 
REBECCA:  It lands with this acceptance of having no control over what people say about me. I know who I am. And if I kiss like a horse, I'm going to wear it with pride.
 
KARIN:  What was it like being a blogger in the early 2000s?
 
REBECCA:  The internet was very punk rock at that time. It felt like you were making an online zine. We all did our own HTML. There was no such thing as algorithms. We embedded videos that we took on our digital cameras, that we edited ourselves. It was very DIY, so growing an audience felt really organic.
 
I was fortunate to be one of the first mommy bloggers and amassed a pretty large audience pretty quickly. From there, I got a book deal and launched Babel, which was a big parenting site in the mid to late aughts. They launched with three bloggers, and I was one of them. I was at the forefront of all the parenting writing spaces, so I was doing work for any parenting site that launched. If it wasn't contributing as a columnist or an essayist, it was consulting.
 
The ad guys realized there was a lot of money to be made from the mommy bloggers. I started making really good money.
 
KARIN:  How did that work exactly?
 
REBECCA:  It started with banner ads, and then it went to sponsored posts. You would get, say, a retainer with Target.
 
KARIN:  Were you transparent with your audience?
 
REBECCA:  In those days, everyone was. I don't think people are as transparent as they used to be. It was a big deal. You had to put on top of every post, “This is sponsored by Graco,” or whatever.
 
KARIN:  How did you manage working while raising four kids?
 
REBECCA:  Yeah, I had help. I had a nanny when my twins were little for the first few years. With my other kids, it was basically just me at home with a kid on my lap, figuring it out. I had sitters coming here and there when I needed them. I was super transparent about that, too. I think it was far more transparent those days than it is now. I don't think people talk about that.
 
KARIN:  What was the turning point?
 
REBECCA:  The money dried up, because the money started going to influencers. I'm not going to do Tik Tok videos. No dig on people who do that, it’s just, I was a writer.
 
I don't know a single person who was blogging long-form in the early aughts, who turned into an influencer of any kind. Nobody.
 
That's why Substack is exciting, because it's a return to the original space, which was writers writing and people reading our work because we were good writers. We weren't just writing pithy captions. It was really about storytelling and transparency and being honest about experiences. Not this hyper glossy, super filtered stuff.
 
On Substack I can charge people. It's $7 a month. I will publish some for free, but I'm going to publish anything that's explicit or super personal behind a paywall. You can't comment unless you are subscribed. That feels good to me. I’ve subscribed to a bunch of writers and I pay for all of the ones I subscribed to because I want to support people.
 
The return to these longer-form platforms is exciting because it means the work is going to start to speak for itself, and it's not about where you're publishing or how many followers you have, this bullshit that everyone's trying to sell you.
 
This Twitter thing is so interesting to me. It's like watching this thing fall—the hubris of male mediocrity who somehow became empowered. It's like eating popcorn.
 
KARIN:  Let’s talk about your memoir All of This: A Memoir of Death and Desire. I find your voice and writing style so accessible. I really enjoy the way you move back and forth, in time and place, with digestible pieces that are seamlessly woven.
 
REBECCA:  Thank you.
 
KARIN:  How did you figure that out?
 
REBECCA:  The name of my Substack is “The Braid,” which was the way I looked at this book. I didn’t know this, but traditional story structure is based on a male orgasm. The climax and the resolution are huge.
 
It broke open my brain because that’s every story I've ever read. It’s the structure that I've been taught. My whole life is based on that shit, and of course I can't write my book like that. That's not how how I cum. I just kind of fall asleep. 
 
So, I had this epiphany about my own desire, my own body, and storytelling as a woman. How was I going to tell a story as a woman? What would my format look like? There isn't a climax and a resolution. That is not how my life looks. Is that honest? Whenever something happens, we're looking for the resolution. We're looking for the ‘aha’ moment. We're trying to find this device that, by the way, was created by some dude who said, This is is how I orgasm.
 
I remember my editor coming back and saying, I think this is your ending. I said, No, I don't think so. In fact, the first draft had three different endings like Choose Your Own Adventure—this idea that there are multiple climaxes and that just because I have one doesn't mean I'm done. I'm like, Wait, I can have another one, like I can still go, I'm not tired yet. That to me felt accurate to my experience, as a person, as a woman, as a sexual being at this point in my life. I'm not here for one ending. I'm not here for one climax. I'm here for all of them.
 
So, I had this come to Jesus moment about how I was going to format my book. What I kept coming back to was the braid—what the braid looked like and what it represented for me. 
 
The story that I wanted to tell does have three parts—the beginning, middle and end—that's legit. There are three parts, but they overlap with each other. The end is its own thing, too. It's the loose hairs of the braid that fall down the back.
 
It's a memoir. I don't know how you tie up loose ends. There is no end. You're still here, life is still happening. So, this idea of having to punctuate your ending feels really false. I'm really aware of endings and making sure that they're open and loose. That to me feels authentic.
 
KARIN:  I’m a fan of the braided structure and weaving the different story threads.
 
REBECCA:  I don't know if you've read Carmen Maria Machado. If you haven't, she's an incredible writer who wrote the memoir In the Dream House. I highly recommend it because you've never read anything like it. It’s basically told in little vignettes.
 
It feels like you're going through drawers, opening them up and seeing what's inside and closing them. I realized how rare it is to pick up a book and to recognize that its format is something you've never felt before—to be inspired not only by what you're reading but also by the way it's formatted. It's like, Oh my god, I can write a book like this. We get so bogged down by rules, and when you read someone who's breaking them all and killing it, it feels really exciting.
 
KARIN:  What was your writing process like?
 
REBECCA:  My process was super messy. I probably wrote the bulk of this book on my kitchen floor and on my notes app. I don't know what it is about the kitchen floor. I pretty much wrote it all in real time.
 
My book is about when my husband was diagnosed with stage four cancer, right after I told him that I wanted to divorce. He died four months later. So, I spent four months taking care of a man that I wanted to leave, and when he died, I felt a lot of conflicting feelings including relief because I was miserable in my marriage. But as a widow, I felt like I couldn't talk openly about that. I felt guilty for even feeling those things.
 
When I started this book, I basically went through my notes app and emailed myself every single one and put it all in a document. There were a lot of fragments, and I was trying to put together a mosaic based on all these little pieces. It was as if I had written hundreds of short essays.
 
The first draft of this book was twice as long as the published version. When I turned my book in to my editor, it read 800 pages. 110,000 words. She responded with, Your contract is for 65,000 words. I turned in a book that literally needed to be cut in half. I remember talking to her on the phone. I was in the parking lot at Trader Joe's and just burst into tears, because I was like, Oh my god, how the fuck am I going to cut this in half? I did cut half of it. I really stand by what remains, because I basically had to Sophie's Choice my whole book.
 
I'm glad that I didn't read the contract, because I think it made me a better writer. I think that so much of writing is editing.
 
KARIN:  How did people in your life react to your book?
 
REBECCA:  When you have people in your life that love you and support you unconditionally, you can write about anything. If you're writing a memoir, you are going to hurt people, but it is not on you to protect them from your truth.
 
I recently had another epiphany about the locked diary. Who does the locked diary protect? I grew up in the 80s as a small child and every one of my friends was given locked diaries—all the girls. My brother never got a locked diary. At the time it was like, yeah, you lock the diary. Keep your secrets safe.
 
I'm wondering more and more about this idea of secrecy. Who are we protecting? Who are we keeping safe?
 
I don't write to protect people from my truth. If you have a problem with it, if it's upsetting to you, or if you don't agree with me, that's not my problem. I've spent a lot of years protecting people, mainly men, and I don't need to do that anymore.
 
You have to be not only prepared but also welcoming to every feeling, from every person, and validating all of it. I have reached out to everyone in my family—they knew I was writing this book—saying, I understand if this is going to be hard for you. If you don't want to talk to me, if you feel uncomfortable, I validate your feelings. I love you. I have to write this book.
 
Allowing people to react negatively and giving them the space to do that and have those feelings is really important, because they're entitled to their feelings as much as you're entitled to your truth. They're entitled to the reaction to your work as much as you're entitled to doing the work.
 
KARIN:  I noticed that you use the royal “we” in your writing, as if including the reader in your experience. Are you aware of that?
 
REBECCA:  I've been writing for 20 years, and a lot of the people who were with me 20 years ago still are, and we're still having these conversations behind the scenes. The “we” feels inclusive to those who aren't able to articulate their stories or don't feel like they can talk openly about their experiences. I feel like I'm speaking for them.
 
Through writing this book, I found out a huge secret about two very close women in my family. Both of them shared these major, life-changing secrets with me, and I realized, Oh, I carry their stories in my body. I come from these women, they're in my body.
 
So much of my willingness to write about what I wrote about was informed by the fact that I was carrying the secrets of these women in my body and that they trusted me with those secrets. As much as I was writing for me, I was writing for them too. I'm not trying to sound like a martyr hero, it's just that when we are sitting down to write our truth, we're not just writing it for us. Otherwise we would be writing it in our notebook and not sharing it with anybody. There's something in us that recognizes that our story is going to be relatable and helpful. A love letter to somebody else. 
 
So I think the “we” is acknowledging that there are people on the other side of your work who are going to see you and feel seen by what you're saying. So much of memoir writing is this gift to some relationship, like you're sharing yourself with someone and it does feel like a “we” to me.



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To learn more about Rebecca Woolf visit her site.

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A Conversation with Adam Skolnick

Have you ever wanted to write someone's life story, perhaps one other than your own? The interview this month with my dear friend Adam Skolnick offers some great insight into the creative process behind his first narrative non-fiction book.

An experienced journalist, Adam was covering an international freediving competition in the Bahamas when the unthinkable happened. Renowned freediver Nicholas Mevoli died tragically during the competition just 10 feet away; and after covering the story for the New York Times, Adam couldn't shake the experience. Now three years later his book One Breath (Crown Archetype, January 2016) has hit the shelves. Through the portrait of this young man, Adam explores the fascinating sport of freediving and the desire of these unique athletes to push human limits.

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Adam Skolnick has written for the New York Times, Playboy, Outside, ESPN.com, BBC.com, Salon.com, Men's Health, Wired, and Travel + Leisure, among others. He has visited 45 countries and authored or coauthored over 25 Lonely Planet guidebooks. His coverage of Nicholas Mevoli's death at Vertical Blue earned two APSE awards. From that emerged his narrative non-fiction book, One Breath -- a gripping and powerful exploration of the strange and fascinating sport of freediving, and of the tragic, untimely death of America's greatest freediver.

“Skolnick shows sharp reportorial instincts in this multilayered narrative...This is a page-turning book... but it’s also about the competitors drawn to the sport, the ones for whom ‘freediving is both an athletic quest to push the limits of the body and mind, and a spiritual experience.’ A worthy addition to the growing body of literature on adventures that test the limits of nature and mankind.”

— Kirkus Reviews

Karin: When you wrote the book proposal, what did you find to be the biggest challenge?

Adam: Well, I think I had this book right away; it was going to be an Into the Wild story. And then I turned it into my agent. My agent didn't want to pin it all onto Nick. He thought maybe a more generic freediving book would be better. Easy to sell or easier to execute. He didn't want to over-promise, under-deliver type thing. I didn't agree with him, but I just thought, I actually have no idea how this world works. He does; I have to trust him. So I followed his lead.

Meanwhile, I'm just finishing up this Lonely Planet L.A. manuscript. I'm in the desert locked away in hiding; Coachella is going off all around me. A friend of mine happened to be in the desert - said there's an extra wristband if you want to come. I go out and end up falling into this Asian drug crew and having really speedy ecstasy. After an hour and half night's sleep, wide awake, I get a message from my agent saying Crown wants to talk to you about your book, can you talk to them? And I'm like, can I talk to them tomorrow? I'm not really in the condition... And of course I thought I'd blown it, like that's it, this is your chance and you're a druggy loser.

So the next day I get on the phone with him and he's saying, “I really like this world but what's the through-line, what's the narrative?” And so I say, “¥ou know, I was always going to write it this other way to be honest. Whoever was going to buy this book, I was always going to talk to them before I started writing; that this is the way it should be done.” He said, “I need three pages to give to people, we're still far from any deal.” So basically I had a day or two to come up with the three-page hook that pitched the narrative.

I know it was a process to get Nick's family to “buy in” so to speak. How did you get them to get behind you and this book - the telling of their son's story? 

My approach was, no matter what they say, I am going to get them to be a part of this. I didn't put too much pressure on that first meeting. I'm pretty organic. I think I blocked out four days to be in Tallahassee, maybe three days. And so that day, on my way there, I just realized I would tell his mom the story of how I came to be the witness to her son's death.

She opened the door, and right away she spun out, like, “Okay, what are you doing here, Adam? What do you want, why are you here, what's going on?” Like right away, I haven't even walked into the house. I said, “Okay, well, can we sit down and can I just tell you how I ended up being there that day?” And I told her the whole story and my own heartbreak. And before I was even done, she was talking. People want to talk.

When tragedy happens in your life - we're all grown ups, we've all had our share of bullshit - my experience of it is, at first everybody's there for you and wants to hear, and then pretty quickly three months later, they'll listen to you but pretty quickly their eyes will glaze over. It's not that they don't give a shit, it's that they don't have the capacity to give a shit anymore. And I was the type of person that, whenever you want to talk about this horrible thing that happened, I'm happy to talk about it. So in reality I filled a number of roles over the course of this thing for the family. I was kind of a surrogate nephew, I was a brother. I wouldn't go so far to say I was a surrogate son, but whenever anyone wanted to talk to me they knew they could. That, I think, has value for the family.

You know what I'm good at is 'access', that's really probably the thing I'm best at. It's never been a problem for me. I don't have any sort of plan or how I go about it. It's really pretty organic. I think anybody can be good at it. If you're interested and you're genuine, people want to talk about their stories. 

You said you had 10 weeks to write the first draft. Did you have a structure or writing ritual that you followed to meet that deadline?

My ritual is just, you gotta write 3,000 words a day if you're trying to meet a deadline like that. If you think about it, my goal was a 100,000-word manuscript, because that's about a 300-page book. So if you think about 3,000 words a day, that's a little over a month and you're done with a draft.

That might sound like a lot, but just think about that for a second. If you write 1,500 words a day, which all of you can do, that's two months.

And the reason I got to the 3,000 word number is from Lonely Planet manuscripts having very tight deadlines and having to produce them really quickly. At the time of my first one, I was still writing magazine stories every once in a while and didn't have to have that same attention span expansion. And a colleague told me, “You can do this, just do 3,000 words a day.” After a while, you do build up to that. It's a vibration, it just tunes up. At first it might be hard, you just keep doing it.

How you get there is an extremely detailed outline. I did a full outline with the editor, kind of mapped it out. I had each chapter outlined. Then when I got to that chapter I outlined it even further. I would break it down, what I wanted to say in that chapter. I'd funnel in all the information that was in my massive notes. I'd pop it in my outline.

The point I'm trying to say is, 3,000 words is only a lot if you don't know what you're going to say. That's when it becomes really hard. If you find yourself staring at the computer not knowing what to write, it means you don't know what you want to say. It doesn't mean you're blocked.

So if you can take that big mass white page and put it down to small little bricks, and just fill those spaces, it's much easier. Much easier. And then everything becomes demystified. 3,000 words a day, or make it a 1,000 words, or if you have a day job, 500 words. Even 500 words a day, in six months you're gonna have a book. That's not that much time.

What was the editing process like?

So then I wrote the whole thing. 430 pages is the first draft.  And I've got a week until I gotta turn it in. I was so happy to have finished the first draft and then I start reading it the next morning, and I think oh f**ck this is horrible. It's a failure.

But luckily I had a good friend come help me edit it. I had a week to go. So I start going through my first 50 pages and make my changes - and hand over those newly edited 50 to him. And he goes through those 50 and makes his notes. When he's done we get together and go over his edits. So pretty soon, almost immediately day one, we have three versions of this manuscript happening. We have the original raw one. We have the one I fixed. And we have the one he's fixing.

And that process gave us a great global view of things, because one of the biggest issues when you're doing what I was doing is, where am I repeating myself? - especially with physiology of freediving and the history of some of these athletes and all that. That's the best way to clean out stuff. But then also overall it just kind of distilled it.

By the time that first pass was done, in just a couple of days before moving on to the second pass, we found it. It was just right there.

I would never have predicted that, it was totally organic. And now I don't think I'll ever do another book any other way.

Where do you write?

For me at this point I travel so much, I can do it anywhere. I generally work better in the daytime. But if I want to swim, I still need to be in the water, so at one point I would be in the backseat of my friend's car on the way to the beach. I had rented a room from a friend in Hollywood for all this time. It's an hour each way to the beach, so I'd be in the backseat writing with the headphones, and on the way back with the headphones. At this point I'm an experienced reporter so I'm on the road a lot. It doesn't matter.

I think the sooner you can get out of the “precious environment” type of stuff that is totally natural to someone who is just getting into it as a real habit or a real lifestyle.... The sooner you can get out of that sanctimonious stuff, sanctifying the writing process, I think the more natural it becomes. That's my own personal take. It's not super sacred, it's just a practice.

To learn more about Adam Skolnick, visit adamskolnick.com

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