Remember Memoir writing involves exploring the spirit of remembrance rather than the literal, moment-by-moment event. Truth is relative. Alter names and you free yourself of the shackles of the grindingly literal. Get to the heart of your recollection.
The POV- Point of View is HUGELY important as this memoir shows. Imagine if the NQT had created the memoir. What would be different in the retelling?
When you draw from an experience that affected you, think about the specific effect and endeavour to capture the heart of that emotional experience in your writing. How can you represent this revelation? This experience below involves some form of recognition or shift in understanding. It does not demand to be expressed as a dramatic volta though sometimes an emphatic epiphany is definitely appropriate: a ‘suddenly’ can work very well! (See Ray Bradbury’s wonderful story The Sound of Thunder which was used as an AQA English Comprehension in 2018.)
My son’s first Parents’ evening at his new school felt like gladiatorial combat.
The dazzling white spaces where Michael’s homework marks should have been entered, lay accusingly blank on each teacher’s desk, from one subject room to another.
However, every teacher was hopeful of improvement until I reached Mr Hector, the Head of History, who considered himself a Roman Emperor and acted accordingly.
‘Michael is not the sort of student this school will tolerate. He will not flourish here. ’ Mr Hector replaced his fountain pen lid with a crisp click and held up the evidence of his mark book. ‘I haven’t received a single homework that is either on time or worthy of my attention. ’
He glanced at his companion whom he announced as Miss Soames, an NQT and his observer for the evening. I wondered if she admired the streak of blonde across his fringe and then I contemplated his murder.
‘ Michael obviously lacks the academic ability to succeed here. ’ He said.
I was glad of my last-minute jacket with its bold lining. ‘Since when is handing in homework a sign of intellectual ability?’
A tiny shard of silence fell between us. Like broken glass.
His clean hands lingered virtuously on his mark book. I noticed a signet ring glinting the initial R on his small finger. Richard? Ralph?
‘And Michael can’t even copy correctly from the board; and I write immaculately don’t I, Miss Soames?’
The observer nodded, in acknowledgement or resignation I couldn’t decide.
Perhaps they were in love.
‘Curious don’t you think?’ I said at last., subduing my desire to thump him. ‘He read at three and can’t copy from the board. What else can’t he do?’ ‘I took out my diary.
‘He carries EVERYTHING to EVERY lesson. So disorganised.’ Mr Hector stroked his signet ring like a pet.
‘No wonder he gets headaches in the evening’ I said and wrote it down. ‘Anything else?
Miss Soames leaned forward all attention: her PGCE studies were now fresh in her mind.
‘He’s lazy,’ said, Mr Hector, unaware that something had shifted in the interview.
‘Or he can’t organise his bag,’ said a voice husky in its daring. For Miss Soames had woken up. ‘How is your son with laces?’
‘Velcro all the way!’ said Mr Hector and then stopped because Miss Soames was smiling in triumph at him.
‘Have you heard of dyspraxia? ’ she said. ‘It often goes undetected. ’ She paused. ‘By both parents and teachers.’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’
And Mr Hector flushed and twisted his ring.
