Telling the Tale of Memory Lane

There is certainly no shortage of writing seminars in Los Angeles.

In the city where most taxi cab drivers, waitresses and office receptionists have a screenplay or a novel in the works, aspiring authors have options galore when it comes to honing their crafts.

Many seminars, though, are mean-spirited affairs, in which unpublished scribblers relieve frustrations and boost their own egos by finding fault with classmates’ work. Those who doubt their abilities may leave, resigned never to pick up a pen again.

Not so with the Writing Your Memories club.

Led by former elementary school teacher Sarah Stone, the class is a haven for senior citizens who have had rich, full lives, and want to leave written records for their descendants.

These gray-haired Prousts are not there to break new literary ground or polish The Great American Novel; they come to stimulate their memory juices, to affirm that the events of their lives are valuable and interesting.

“My kids can’t imagine that I was ever really young, that I ever thought, felt, spoke, like them. Writing this stuff makes me more human, rather than just an authority figure,” a mother of three grown children said.

The seminar offers little technical guidance, merely support in the common struggle to set reminiscences on paper.

Even the setting of the seminar is cozy and secure--the dining nook of Stone’s home in Van Nuys, a white house with blue door and shutters, a small white fence, and carefully tended rose bushes.

About 15 people are in the group, but only eight appeared at a recent meeting--the rest kept away by aches and pains, grandchildren, out-of-town visitors and the sundry pitfalls of age.

After chatter about the merits of senior citizenship--and the grim alternative--Stone called the class to order. Stone has no professional writing experience. She taught elementary school for 30 years and was inspired to start the group after taking a class with the same name.

“I took a writing class with the most miserable teacher, an extremely callous man who was uninterested in his students,” she said. “It occurred to me that I missed teaching. I was always good at helping children uninhibit themselves, and I thought I could be good at this too.”

The women began by “sharing” a personality trait that has helped them through more than a half century. Vera liked her sense of humor; Eleanor was pleased that she doesn’t get bored with life; and so it went, classmates nodding and smiling in support.

Stone’s topic of the day was dialogue and inner monologue. Stone told the group that through a character’s words, the author can convey emotion. Emotion is important.

“The fact that I graduated from college in 1947 is boring. The fact that I was elated to graduate because I was impoverished and it was a real struggle is interesting,” she said.

She gave an impromptu example of an inner monologue, which she uses sometimes when she feels glum.

“Sarah,” she began, “remember at that luncheon when this woman came up to you, hugged you, and said in an extremely loud voice, ‘Oh, Mrs. Stone, it’s so good to see you. You were the best teacher I’ve ever had.’ You were so embarrassed, weren’t you, Sarah, with 500 people looking at you. But later when you thought about it, it gave you satisfaction, didn’t it?”

Lecture concluded, she assigned her class to write their own inner monologues: “A Character Study of Myself.”

She gave the class about 15 minutes, punctuated by interruptions, such as Stone’s exhortations to sample graham crackers and tea she had set out for them.

When Vera stood to stretch, Stone asked her, “Are you going to do the Pledge of Allegiance?” probably a reflexive line, doubtless familiar to generations of her elementary school students. Vera meekly returned to her chair.

Like any students, the women grumbled about their assignment. Some wrote on legal pads, others on small sheets of paper better suited for weekly grocery lists. But all took the task seriously. Less than 15 minutes later, sharing of life stories began.

Vera wrote about sliding into the cement trench of the Los Angeles River because she thought her son was drowning there. Lillian wrote about growing up as one of the few Jewish girls in a small Midwestern town. Charlotte wrote about her mother buttering matzo at Passover.

Bea could not talk--she had a throat virus--so Stone read her story about moving to a new house after her brother died when she was a young girl, and her fear that he could not find the family if he wanted to come back to them.

As in any writing seminar, there was comment.

But rather than analyzing technical merits, students joined in a chorus of “that reminds me of the time” or “I had a similar thing when.”

Some of the writing is amateurish, but Stone had no criticisms or suggestions for improvement--only words of encouragement. As when she taught elementary school, she tries to nurture each pupil, stimulating creativity.

“I don’t promise to teach you writing skills, but I can inspire you to write.”

She has apparently been successful.

At one point, the class could have degenerated into a rap session as the women eagerly shared memories triggered by a classmate’s story. Stone offered to let the group “convert into a club that chats,” but an insistent student got them back to work, reminding her of their mission.

“This is for our grandchildren. They want to know these things about us.”