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Below are some ideas of how you may want to start your life story. Remember situations, statements and stories that you have either experienced or heard about over time are the best way to start. For examples, I have attached two of my short stories A White Christmas In Vermont and Trumpet Man.
“Writing runs in the family. My cousin Mike Robinson, who lived in Hanover, NH for many years, was not only a playwright, but a prize-winning author. His novel, The Raj, based on his service in the US State Department in India, was awarded the Book of the Month Club in the 1970’s. Today, his daughter, Leslie, carrying on the tradition, is a writer and columnist in Seattle. So I come by it through genes, I would say, and a desire to help people tell their life stories.”
Marjory Diane Lyons, 2005
“One of the most thrilling and significant moments in my writing career came when I was age 17 and a freshman in college. My English professor, Miss Peltz --- I am sure she had a first name, but we just called her Miss Peltz – Miss Pelts returned my composition paper to me. The subject had been a character study of my hometown. On the paper she had written a comment in pencil. The handwriting I can still see today, clear, straight lines, a combination of cursive and manuscript letters: ‘Miss Lyons, your writing resembles that of Eudora Welty. Good luck.’
Imagine being compared to the great Eudora who was a then writing regularly for The New Yorker. I traced over those penciled words, so proud, and, inspired. What could there have been in my writing that brought about my professor’s praise, I wondered. I wish I had kept that composition. I would like to have it to study now. Perhaps Miss Peltz saw that I loved to write about my little Long Island town, Miller Place, where I grew up and where my soul was formed, a town so distant in miles from, Mississippi that she loved, too, to write about.”
Marjory Diane Lyons, 2005
“My earliest memory of writing was that I wrote a family newsletter the summer I turned eight. Great Aunt Peggy had a big Oliver typewriter perched high on top of her huge mahogany desk. I sat up tall and pecked out the news for the families – cousins and aunts and uncles and grandmothers who were assembled in three houses that summer.
The only news item I remember was about the number of kittens our cat, Fluffy, had produced, five, as was usually the case. None were as pretty as the younger cats had borne, who were having their first litters, almost all shiny black.
Fluffy’s offspring were tan striped, not elegant in any way. But we recognized that she was a good mother. Many times we had seen her crawl into our bedroom closet and gave birth, then tenderly clean and nurse the babies. One night Mother put her outside knowing, she could snuggle her family into the garage or playhouse or porch stoop. But Fluffy wanted to keep her babies inside the house. Later that night my sister and I hear a soft scratching noise at the window, and we sat up in bed. Fluffy appeared on the open window ledge. She was carrying a kitten in her mouth. She jumped into our little bedroom and placed the kitten in the closet on the old wool sweater curled up on the floor. Then she went back for each kitten, holding it in her mouth, a tiny bundle with eyes not open yet.
When all five were safely inside, we tiptoed over to watch. Sure enough, Fluffy was licking and cleaning each little animal. Then she stretched out to provide milk for them, purring contentedly.”
Marjory Diane Lyons, 2005
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