Two kinds of writing
There are two ways to write about an ancestor.
You can describe her — from the outside, in summary, at a distance. The reader is told about her.
Or you can put her on the page — where we can see her, hear what she did, stand in the room beside her. The reader is with her.
The difference isn't talent, and it isn't more research. It's a handful of moves you can learn in an afternoon.
See it for yourself
Here is the same woman, written both ways. Same facts. Same research. Different writing.
The dry version:
Margaret McKinnon was a widow with three young children. She kept the family farm in Carrick Township after her husband died. She raised her children alone and managed the farm for many years.
The alive version:
After John died, Margaret kept the farm. Donald was thirteen and took on the calves. Catherine learned to bring the kettle to the table without being asked. James asked once where his father had gone, and after that he did not.
Nothing was invented. Every fact is the same. But now we can see her children. We can hear what they did. We're in the kitchen, not the encyclopedia.
What you'll do
Records to Real People is three short modules — about thirty minutes each, ninety minutes in all — with a workbook to write in as you go. You don't watch and nod. You write. By the end you'll have one finished paragraph: an ancestor brought to the page, in your own words.
Module 1 — Hearing the Difference Learn to hear what separates a paragraph that describes your ancestor from one that puts her on the page — first in examples, then in your own writing, read aloud.
Module 2 — Three Moves That Make a Person Real
The three concrete moves, named and demonstrated: something specific they did, a place we can see, one particular only they would have. Then you practice each one.
Module 3 — Your Finished Paragraph
Put the three moves together and write the paragraph through. You finish with one true paragraph of your ancestor — and the skill to do it again for the next one.
What you walk away with
You leave with more than a lesson. You leave with a paragraph — one you wrote, one you'd be glad to show your family. And you leave knowing how you did it, so the next ancestor, and the one after that, come to the page the same way.
Who it's for
This is for the writer with a binder full of research and the quiet worry that none of it reads like a story. For the one who has thought, more than once, I don't even know where to start. Perhaps you.
It asks for nothing you don't already have. You don't need to be a writer. You don't need a finished manuscript, or a plan for the whole book, or even a clear idea of which story is yours. You need one ancestor and ninety minutes.
Start small. Start close. One paragraph is enough to begin.
