Have you ever embarked on an exciting writing experiment that seemed brilliant at first, only to encounter an obstacle (or several)?
Welp, that’s been my experience exploring the second-person[1] point of view for my memoir. While initially promising, I now doubt it’ll be the right fit for my narrative voice. However, before I toss it aside completely, I tinkered with the parameters of my experiment and gave it another go. To my happy surprise, the writing began to flow. I haven’t figured out[2] the why yet, but there’s something about it that calms my wild neurodivergent mind, preventing me from overthinking my sentences.
One of my shortcomings as a writer is my inability to turn off my editor brain, which makes writing the first draft of any book difficult. E.g., I create a “workshop” document for each chapter. This template solely exists to satisfy my obsessive need to dissect individual sentences as I create them. Usually, it’s just the ones that feel “off” for a reason I can’t put a finger on. Not always. The first line to my introduction has over 30 iterations, and that doesn’t even account for the ones I deemed unworthy of preservation.
I suppose writing in the second person has given me more creative freedom. With this POV, I can explore my memories more easily, free from the interruptions of constantly trying to fix[3] my sentences. It relieves the pressure because I know none of this will end up in my book one day. Let’s face it—I’m not that talented or seasoned, and it’s hard to pull off successfully. Even Mary Karr only tackled half of Cherry[4] in the second person, though that was probably an honest-to-God creative choice on her part. But still, when armed with the second person, I feel stronger, more ready to sift through the fragments of my childhood.
In the hazy summertime, the second person comes alive, capturing the freedom and fearlessness you once felt.
Those long-ago summers spent roaming your neighborhood with a gaggle of girls. Playing Fear Factor with your little sisters—a clandestine way of terrorizing them. Vaulting the gap between the boardwalks, your heart racing but steady. Always greeting your local Tom Thumb attendants by name, proud to be so familiar. Dulling the yearslong heatwave with a cold white cherry slushy, gulping all 32 ounces on the long trek back home before it had the chance to melt.
To stave off boredom, you’d bike around the cul-de-sac, stopping at the perpetually vacant vacation home with the thousand-and-one deck levels. You’d never met or had even seen the homeowners, so the lot of you abandoned your bikes in the driveway, taking the path that led around the side of the house and down to the beach. This was the easiest access point to a strip of land where the water was so deep you couldn’t touch the bottom.
But that wasn’t your destination today. When your friends started down the trail to the beach, you said, Wait up—watch this!
You climbed. All those stairs, leading up to some stranger’s tall house—you’d always wanted to know what was at the top. What better time to find out? A nervous neighbor spotted you scaling the final level to the observation deck and called out, Hey, what d’you think you’re doing up there?
Over the wild beat-beat-beating of your hummingbird heart, you hollered back, O, um, we’re just looking for our cat!
The girls giggled down below, and you beamed, proud of your cunning. But the adrenaline rush left your hands shaky as you climbed back down.
O, look, I think I see her! The neighbor pointed at something fluffy nearby, but you didn’t bother checking—you didn’t have a cat. Actually, you rather disliked them.
When your feet hit the sand, you turned tail, laughing all the way home. With your heart still beating out of your chest, you thought, A life of crime might not be for me.
Albert Camus wrote in The Stranger (which Mary Karr also referenced in Cherry): “He seemed so certain about everything, didn’t he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman’s head. He wasn’t even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man.” Reading those words again now, as I wrestle with finding the right voice for my memoir, hits differently. Much of the novella flew over my head in college, but I think I finally understand one of the points Camus was trying to make.
Perhaps my goal shouldn’t be absolute certainty in one voice over another. Maybe the real treasure is the process of self-discovery; finding your true voice as a writer is simply an added benefit.
[1] For those of you unfamiliar, (y’all best let me know if I ever use a literary term or phrase without properly explaining it) the second-person POV brings the reader directly into your story by expressing their actions and thoughts with the pronoun “you.”
[2] I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll have figured it out by the end of this post, as that’s why I write these blogs in the first place (to untangle my crazy-ass brain)!
[3] Editor-Kinsey here: I came back to add this footnote after finishing the piece, because, ironically, the moment I decided I’d put a teensy bit of my second-person writing into this blog post, I started “fixing” my sentences again! I am my own worst enemy.
[4] I cannot recommend Karr’s second memoir enough. I was wary when I realized she wrote parts in the dreaded second-person, and it does take some getting used to, but once you do, it’s quite beautiful. If you’re an ACOA like me, you might understand why this POV can be so powerful, when used correctly by a proficient author (so, not me — at least, not yet!).
inspo: reminiscing on childhood // memoir musings // parts 3 & 4 of Mary Karr’s Cherry (the portions she wrote in second-person POV) // rediscovering Tumblr, which reignited my love of poetry // Albert Camus
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Love the way you explain your memories in this
Thank you, good sir. You’re the sweetest.