What makes a memoir a great beach read?
When clients come to me with a memoir idea, they often arrive armed with what I call the broad strokes. The outer arc. The résumé version of their life story: “I grew up poor, worked hard, rose through the ranks, and became a senior partner at a major law firm.” Or: “I started in the warehouse and ended up as CEO.”
A memoir isn’t a padded LinkedIn bio with a few colorful anecdotes tossed in like garnish. It’s not a chronological highlight reel of accomplishments. However impressive, that’s not a story—not yet. A memoir isn't a chronological highlight reel with personality sprinkled on top.
But that’s not why people pick up a memoir on a long flight or a lazy afternoon. They want something more immersive. Something that surprises them, moves them, maybe even helps them make sense of their own mess. A memoir—like a good novel—isn’t just about what happened. It’s about what changed.
What Happened vs. What It Meant
Think of it this way: the external story is the track. The internal story is the train. Without the track, you go nowhere. But without the train, there’s nothing moving the reader forward.
Let’s say your outer arc is, “I moved from Dallas to New York, joined a start-up, and built a thriving company.” Okay, that’s the infrastructure. But your memoir lives in the inner arc: “I struggled to believe I was good enough. I lost friends. I found boundaries. I discovered what kind of leader I didn’t want to be.” That’s the emotional engine. That’s why someone turns the page when the sun is shining and the poolside bar is open.
Show the Struggle, Not Just the Success
One of the biggest misconceptions I run into is the idea that memoir is a stage for showcasing success. But celebration without struggle? That’s not a story—it’s a PowerPoint deck with better lighting.
Every memorable memoir contains tension. Doubt. A dash of chaos. Some Seinfeld-level awkwardness. Maybe even a few nights of soul-searching that didn’t end with perfect clarity or a TED Talk-worthy insight. The truth is, readers don’t care if you made partner. They care what it cost you to get there. What you risked. What you regret. What cracked you open along the way.
You don’t need Everest or scandal to qualify. But you do need to let the reader in. Not just into what you did—but into what you felt.
Details Are Everything
Here’s the part where most business leaders get tripped up: details.
You lived it, so you assume the significance is obvious. But to the reader? The power is in the specifics. The scratchy chartreuse blazer you wore to your first job interview, sleeves too short and confidence thinner still. The silence in the room when your mentor said, “You’re ready—but the team isn’t.” The moment you stared out the window and knew something had to give—even if you didn’t know what yet.
Those aren’t just memories. They’re scenes. And scenes are what stick.
Paradoxically, the more specific you are, the more universal your story becomes. A thousand people have become CEOs. But no one else did it with your dad’s advice ringing in their ears, your impostor syndrome lurking at every promotion, your heartbreak wrapped around your best decision.
The Takeaway
If you’re thinking about writing a memoir, start with the big picture. But don’t stop there. Ask yourself: What changed me? What surprised me? What still wakes me up at 3 a.m.?
That’s the story. That’s what people read under umbrellas and beside bedside lamps. That’s what they carry with them.
And if you’re wondering how to shape all that into something with momentum and meaning—well, that’s where I come in. If you’d like to talk about turning the arc of your life into a story people can’t put down, I’d love to hear from you.