In 1972, Joyce Maynard published a mini-memoir that appeared on the cover of the New York Times Maga- zine. Poignant, eloquent memoirs often grace the magazine’s pages, but this one, entitled “An 18-Year-Old Looks Back On Life,” gained an exceptional level of publicity because of its unusually young author. Now 61, Maynard has authored multiple novels, essays, and a more recent memoir about her tumultuous relationship with J.D. Salinger. In fact, her affair with Salinger resulted from her collegiate memoir—Salinger was so taken by Maynard’s work that he wrote the teenager a letter at Yale, praising her Times piece.
I was dubious that those with so few years of life experience could write compelling memoirs. Yesterday I heard Maynard give a reading from her early memoir on campus, and during the discussion that followed she countered my reservations about the authenticities and abilities of young adults, and even teenagers, to write reflectively about their lives.
Maynard confessed that she didn’t write in a “truly authentic fashion” until she was in her 40s. I asked her about the advice she would have given herself then, how teenage memoirists can imbue their works with authenticity.
Maynard said not to use “we” language, to never extrapolate personal experience as universal. She called bullshit on the notion that one could be the voice of her generation. She advised young writers to root their experiences within the contexts of historical moment. In her Times piece, Maynard bookmarks her childhood with events like J.F.K.’s assassination and the Cuban Missile Crisis. Lastly, Maynard urged aspiring memoirists to write about that which is “impossible” and “brave.” For Maynard, that meant writing about her father’s alcoholism, her struggles with bulimia, and her insecurities about her virginity.
When I sat down to write this op-ed, I wondered what it would be like to write a memoir of my own. Then it occurred to me how easy, how instant that could be, how I already sort of do just that. Maynard wrote that her generation was “The first to take technology for granted” and “the first to grow up with TV,” but our generation is the first to disseminate life stories through more media platforms than ever before, from personal websites to blogs to Facebook to Twitter. Anyone can write a memoir and post it on Tumblr, or go a step further and publish it as an e-book. I post personal essays on my blog.
The multitude and diversity of platforms available to young memoirists enable thoughtful essays, but also accusations of narcissism. Critics have labeled young memoirists—and our generation as a whole—as too precious, too entitled, too myopic. But in the decades that distance Maynard’s memoir from the essays I write today, regard has changed for young writers.
Maynard wrote that her generation was called the “apathetic” generation. She said, “Call us the apathetic generation and we will become that.” The same goes for ours, “the narcissistic one.” Perhaps our immediate abilities to self-publish our experiences render us self-absorbed. But I believe instead that the mass dissemination of our stories allows us, more than generations that came before us, to peer into others’ lives, into far corners of the world. I like to think that these informal, digital memoirs foster greater empathy. I think that the fact that I can read about the struggles of a transgender teen in Utah and then browse photos taken by young Syrian refugees makes me more aware.
Today, more young writers are self-publishing than ever, unfiltered by trained editors’ eyes and unselected for magazine rosters. But strong writers differentiate themselves from the multitudes featured online. Tavi Gevinson established her voice online at age 12, and is now the editor-in-chief of Rookie, an online magazine that in turn serves as a platform for many other young writers. Lena Dunham first reached wide audiences while in college, posting her independent short films on YouTube. Some of her videos went viral, catching the eye of New Yorker critics. Now she writes for the magazine itself, while writing, directing, and starring in her hit HBO show. After her tragic death in 2012, Marina Keegan, SY ’12, was posthumously published in print; the collection of her es- says, “The Opposite of Loneliness,” includes works once shared online.
These essays, though reflective of young lives, are far from trivial. When I read a young writer’s account of that awful time she got her period during a school show or the way another fumbled through his sexual awakening, I feel privileged to glimpse into others’ lives, not always so unlike my own.
Despite the opportunities to quickly and freely publish my writing, it isn’t easy to regard Maynard or Dunham and think “I could do that.” There are freshmen everywhere who yearn to be heard, who want their peers to read their stories. I want to validate my work to older generations who question whether teenagers could possibly have anything authentic to write about.
I like to think that if my proverbial memoir is to someday appear on the cover of the Times Magazine, I won’t receive the piles of angry letters that filled Maynard’s Yale P.O. Box then, or the accusations of narcissism that so many critics hurl at young writers today. I don’t believe, as Fitzgerald wrote, that “youth is wasted on the young.” I think the young have stories to tell, and celebrate the many who take the leap to share them.