I just finished reading Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. If you don’t already know, as a makeshift crash course on memoir writing, I have been reading memoir almost exclusively. Every list of recommended memoirs includes Crying in H Mart, like every damn list. So… I read it. I have mixed feelings.

The book is well written. Much of the prose quite beautiful and though the timeline in nonlinear, it didn’t feel confusing to me in the slightest. That said, I really didn’t like it. Like it was ok. It was fine. Not how I want to feel after reading a memoir… I want my heart ripped out of my chest. I want it to hurt in the best way and then… Then I want the wound to be dressed and cared for, gently. I want to feel made whole again by words alone. I want inspiration. And I didn’t get that here. For me, I feel like the description of outside events, environment, what have you, far outweighed internal experience and quite frankly, I was bored.

I’ve come to realize that I may have different taste than the average reader and/or whoever the readers are that decide that a book is so good and deserves all the praise. This isn’t the first highly recommended memoir that I’ve felt this way about. It always comes down to the same thing. I am so much more interested in the writer’s internal experience, the description of their thoughts and emotions than I am the outside world. I have to be able to relate to the author and I have to be able to relate emotionally.

I don’t know why any of this is surprising to me. This is absolutely the reason that I consume media, whether it be books, movies/shows or music. Unless I am in it to learn, which is also huge for me (I need to know all the things, ALL THE THINGS), I’m basically using it to process my emotions. I have difficulty with identifying my own emotions. I’m very good at seeing them in others but myself, well, it’s s struggle. I need someone outside of myself to trigger these emotions so that I can feel and process them fully.

This post is definitely not a dis on Crying in H Mart or Michelle Zauner’s writing. It is a well written book. If you enjoy books that are highly descriptive of the environment, this may be for you, especially if you like descriptions of food or foreign cultures. If you’re like me and are more interested in the internal, maybe not (in maybe a third of the book there is more emotional description), maybe then you’d like the book I just read (Unbearable Lightness by Portia de Rossi) or the one I’m reading currently (Girl in Need of a Tourniquet by Merri Lisa Johnso) more 🤷

Anyway, this has me thinking about writing and my memoir. I’ve heard over and over that most writers new to memoir struggle with the whole show don’t tell thing but that that is easy to learn. That the real struggle tends to be understanding that when you are writing your memoir, you aren’t just talking about yourself, you are making a connection with a wider theme. You are using your story as an example of some wisdom that you attempting to impart. It isn’t about you, it’s about the lesson.

I think that may be backward for me. I may struggle with the former much more then the latter. The general point of my public writing is to use my life, my story, my struggles to help others feel less alone. I definitely use it for my own processing but I do so by connecting my experience to larger societal themes, right? I feel like that kind of comes naturally to be but description of things outside of myself… that may be a struggle for me.

Like I said, it doesn’t interest me. If I’m being completely honest, at times I just skim the outside description. It feels like unnecessary filler and it bores me. Given that much of my life had been lived inside of my head, that makes sense. What about you? How do you feel about description in writing? Do you prefer description of the scenery? The action? Or are you similar to me and prefer the internal landscape? Maybe both are equally important for you? I’m genuinely curious. Please drop a comment and let me know.