Don’t talk about kindergarten (yet)

When most people sit down to write a memoir, their first instinct is to start at the very beginning—cue the grainy childhood memories, the dog named Scout, the first-grade teacher who changed everything. It seems logical. It also usually leads nowhere fast.


What you get is a meandering origin story. Chapters drift. Focus blurs. And before long, the momentum fizzles and you’re stuck wondering if your life just isn’t interesting enough to put on the page. (Spoiler: It is. You’re just starting in the wrong place.)


A better approach? Start with a jolt. A turning point. A moment that cracked your world open. Drop us into the middle of something vivid and meaningful—something that hints at the journey to come. A couple of crisp, cinematic paragraphs that say, Here’s where things got real.


But don’t stop there.


After the moment that grabs us by the collar, take a step back. Give us the lay of the land. Who are you? What have you lived through? Why are you telling this story now? What’s in it for the reader?


That opening doesn’t need to be literary or profound. It just needs to be honest. Tell us what’s shaped you. What questions have haunted you. What hard-won insights you’re ready to lay on the table. And maybe most important: who are you writing this for, and what do you want them to take from it?


Doing this upfront does two important things. First, it gives your reader a map. Second—and maybe more crucially—it gives you one. When you know what the book is really about, you stop trying to include everything. You start writing with intention. You know what serves the story and what can stay in the attic.


Yes, we’ll still explore your childhood. But we’re not opening with your Little League stats.


Instead, picture yourself sitting across from a smart, curious friend who asks, “So—what’s your story?”


Start there. Say what matters. The rest will follow.