This set of memoirs opened a few windows into how writers deal with suffering. Or rather into the question about the difference between a personal account and a fine piece of writing. Some chose a fragmented, episodic, almost cinematic approach to events. Other wrote the more traditional story with a beginning, a middle and an end, and with an overarching image that gathered everything into itself. In almost all the cases the inner conflict of the story teller, the ‘I’ was set side by side with the compassion for the suffering of others. But in many of these stories I saw the effort to create images that would communicate to the reader, and I am glad of that.
How do we transform personal experience of pain into literature? How do we create and then chisel away at those images of others, of loss, of suffering, of unspeakable helplessness so that they become works of art that aim for a shared humanity? What is the role of language—lyrical, descriptive or confessional in portraying these strong experiences? What exactly is the language of memory? The pieces selected here seem to prompt all these questions and the best of them offer some great answers. The more I read through them, the more I saw the selection criteria embedded in the writing itself, so that I did not need to rely on outside definitions of what makes a good memoir. Each piece was judged on its own merit, for what it aimed at as writing.
At the end of the process I feel grateful and honoured to have read all of these pieces. Regardless of whether a prize was conferred on any of these memoirs, I felt that no writing was wasted. Writing will always be praised, ignored, set apart, singled out for reviews, examined and torn apart but no writing ever is a waste of time. I believe it is a way to put order in the mess of our lives and to reach out to others. In this sense I find it all necessary. It’s wonderful to have publishers such as Fish who support it and help the writers hone their skill.