It's the problem with fairy tales. From far away, they seem so perfect. But up close, they're just as complicated as real life.

—Soman Chainani

You’re no longer in Kansas—but you’re not in Oz either.

You’re in the woods. And it’s foggy, disorienting, and weirdly quiet, except for the whispers of fear, doubt, and second-guessing.

Welcome to the murky marshland—also known as the reactive middle.

This is the messy heart of your memoir—where many memoirs fall off the map.

In Framing Your Memoir Through the Fairytale Lens, we discussed how well-crafted memoirs have a Three-Act Story. Let’s review those three acts.

Act 1: The Beginning (Set-Up)

The beginning sets the stage by introducing the main players—Hero, Villain, Fairy Godmother, and Kindred Spirit—while establishing the world of the story. It also presents the situation at hand and foreshadows the main problem (Life-and-Death Struggle) that drives the narrative forward. The beginning ends with Leaving the Shire.

Act 2: The Middle (Struggle)

This is where the Hero takes action to try solving the Life-and-Death Struggle. They will try various solutions, encounter resistance, and face setbacks. This is where your smaller stories come into play, like dominoes falling one by one, building momentum toward the climax.

Act 3: The End (Climactic Sequence and Resolution)

The climactic sequence leads to a final showdown. The struggle finally pays off, and the main problem (introduced in the beginning) is resolved. But this victory isn’t just handed to the Hero—it’s hard-won, requiring persistence and growth. Only then can you write “The End.”

Where Are We Now?

We’re in the middle struggle—but only the first half of the middle. That’s because, despite there being only three parts to a story, the middle—which is the biggest section—is split in two.

Both halves are a struggle, but the struggle is divided between a reactive struggle and a proactive struggle. Understanding this can make or break your memoir’s potential to keep readers.

The concept of a Three-Act Story with a split middle is common throughout literature and movies. The centerpiece of your memoir—and the changing of the guard—happens in the middle of the middle—in the Looking Glass Moment, where the Hero switches from being reactive to becoming proactive. They do this because they’ve learned something that awakens them.

But we’re getting ahead of the story. For now, we are focusing on the first half of the middle. It’s still a struggle—just a reactive struggle.

Think of the Two Struggles

Think about a girl who is bullied at school every day because another girl wants her lunch money. She gets up every morning and her mom gives her lunch money, but she rarely makes it to the lunch line because the money is stolen before lunch.

She tries different tactics to protect her money. She hides it in a book. She tucks it in her shoe. She gives it to a friend to keep. But every day, the bully figures it out and steals it again.

After weeks of being bullied, she wonders if the bully doesn’t have lunch money and that’s why she steals hers. She decides to offer half of her lunch money to the bully. It doesn’t work. The bully wants all of it. She tries to smile and befriend the bully. But that doesn’t work either.

She decides to fight back by hitting the other girl with her book bag, but that only lands her in the principal’s office. While she’s there, she tells the principal what’s happening, and the other girl is punished too. Her victory is short-lived because the next week, the other girl is back in true bully form, demanding her lunch money.

The Pivotal Moment

When she notices the other girl wearing the same dress every day, she asks her mother if she can invite the other girl over to spend the night. Her mother, knowing everything that has transpired, agrees hesitantly.

She is the same size as the bully. She wants to give her some of her clothes. On the night of the sleepover, she is sick to her stomach. What if this doesn’t work? Then she will have given this bully access to her home and her bedroom. What more can she steal from her?

The stakes are high. This is the showdown at midnight in the bedroom—where two opposing forces meet up and decide to either fight it out or become friends.

It turns out the bully girl has never been in a home as nice as our Hero’s. Never slept in a bed with princess furniture and baby dolls and so many stuffies looking on. But instead of fighting, she bursts into tears when she sees the beautiful clothes our Hero and her mother have set out for her.

As an added bonus, the Hero offers her a choice of her stuffies.

What started as a terrible, nauseating battle turns into a transformational moment as a beautiful friendship forms and the two girls grow up as best friends and sisters.

If only all the problems of the world were so easily solved, right?

I hope this little story helps you visualize how there can be two different halves of the middle struggle.

In the first half, the Villain kept our Hero on her toes, dodging one upset after another.

Then she became proactive and tried new ways to approach the bully.

Finally, her newer approaches to the problem overcame the bully’s tactics—and the other girl was a bully no more.

And What About You?

You’ve burned the boats. Walked away from the job, the church, the marriage, or the family. You’ve stepped into a world that is new, uncertain, and full of emotional potholes.

It’s important to note that leaving doesn’t always start with your feet.
Sometimes it begins in the mind—in the quiet refusal to keep playing along.

This is as much an inner journey as a physical one.

What Does Your Journey Through the Woods Look Like?

Your decision to leave the Shire was only the beginning. Now you must navigate the fallout. Trees are falling across your path, floods are threatening to sweep your dreams away, flying monkeys are dive-bombing your head, and a wolf is in hot pursuit to steal your life and dignity.

All you can do at this point is duck, dodge, hide—and hope to find a better way to deal with all the crap thrown at you.

You’re wading through the reactive middle.

You’re not yet in control.

You’re not transformed.

You’re just reacting to what’s happening around you—dodging backlash, unpacking grief, and facing consequences that you didn’t see coming.

Welcome to the “WTF?” wilderness.

This is survival mode.

Everywhere you step, there are emotional landmines. The map is gone. The Fairy Godmother has gone on break. And you're left to stumble forward, hoping something resembling a path will appear.

Why the Setup Matters

Before you entered the woods, you laid the groundwork. Your early chapters introduced us to the cast of characters, your beliefs, your background, and—importantly—the Villain and Inklings of Trouble.

Here, in the middle of the story, we get to see how you react to those villains, losses, betrayals, and disillusionments. You’re not making anything up—this is simply the natural chain reaction of events set in motion by your inciting incident: a moment so pivotal that it pushed you into Leaving the Shire (emotionally, spiritually, or physically).

Think of Leaving the Shire as an earthquake—and this middle section like a series of emotional aftershocks.

Key Ingredients of the Reactive Middle

1. Rising Tension

What are the consequences of your choice to leave or speak up? What has it cost you?
When did your beliefs start to unravel?

2. Trials and Tests

What are your struggles in the woods?

Do you feel confident in your choices, or do you waver?

Do you want to go back—or keep going?

Does your character have to choose between being free and being safe?

3. Obstacles and Helpers

When and where will your supporting cast show up?

How much of this journey through the woods will you travel alone?

Will you find:

• A friend who validates your pain

• A therapist who names your patterns

• A book, song, or quote that changes your point of view

• Or a toxic ex, pastor, or parent who keeps poking the wound

Both mentors and monsters are at odds in the woods—and that adds to the tension.

4. An Emotional Journey

This isn’t just about what happened—it’s about how it happened and what it means.

You’re shifting slowly from obedience to awareness:

“I kept trying to be the good girl, but every time I obeyed, I lost a piece of myself. Until I finally asked—what if I don’t need saving?”

You’re not yet transformed. Not yet triumphant. You’re just reacting.

And that’s your plot.

The Domino Effect

The inciting incident that sets the story in motion and causes you to leave the Shire is the first domino in a chain reaction. That reaction will continue throughout your story. Each event will build on the one before.

Once again—you are not making stuff up. Life is a chain reaction.

The difficult part for the memoir writer is to think long and hard about what these events were—and how you responded.

You might be afraid your memoir doesn’t have a plot, but the dominoes falling in response to why you left the Shire is the plot.

If you’re in the woods—flailing in the FOG (fear, obligation, and guilt put on you by the Villain)—but you keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Slow down and describe your feelings—one reaction at a time.

Memoir Requires Deep Introspection

This deep thinking demands memory tools. You might want to use:

• Think of your memory as a superpower

• Old photos

• Songs you might have heard on the radio

• Stories from others

• Records of birth and death

• Dates you moved from one place to another

Each of these might be clues to the mystery of why you acted the way you did—and made the choices you made.

Emotional Truth Over Factual Detail

Remember—you’re tracking the emotional truth, not just the factual one.

I deal very little in facts. Facts can obscure the truth.
You can tell so many facts you never get to the truth.
You can tell the places where, the people who, the times when, the reasons why—
and never get to the human truth, which is love and pain and loss and triumph.
—Maya Angelou

If you can focus on that human truth—of love, pain, loss, and triumph—you will be well on your way to a memoir that resonates.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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It had been five years since Mount Baker had let off steam, but all the hype had evaporated along with the plumes. I wasn’t worried about Mount St. Helens since Mount Baker was still standing.

Daddy drove us to Mount St. Helens on a Saturday afternoon. We loaded as many people as we could fit into our roomy van and headed for the mountain. It was an hour away as the eagle flies, but it took a couple of hours to get there.

The road to St. Helens was lined with signs. It seemed everyone had something to say. I read one handwritten sign out loud. “Mount St. Helens is alive and well,” and everyone in the van laughed. The idea that any of our sleepy Pacific Northwest mountains would wake and turn into a volcano sounded like a conspiracy theory.

Some signs warned people to stay away from the mountain, while others joked about old man Harry Truman who lived at the Spirit Lake Lodge. The newspaper reported he’d been knocked out of his bed by an earthquake, but he refused to leave his many cats and the lodge, which had been his home for decades.

The closer we got to the mountain, the slower the traffic. Lots of people were sight-seeing with us. We anticipated seeing steam or some sign of volcanic activity, but we ran into a roadblock long before we got to the mountain. Daddy stopped the van to read the warning sign.

“No entry beyond this point. This area has been designated as an unsafe zone. All unauthorized access is prohibited.”

I stared at a patch of wildflowers on the other side of the barricade. The purple flowers were a picture of tranquility—not even a breeze stirred them. The warning seemed out of place. I begged Daddy to drive around the barrier like we saw other cars doing, but he insisted on turning the van around.

“We need to get home–it’ll be getting dark soon.”

One week after our trip to Mount St. Helens, I slipped into the backyard to wander through the garden. I was pushing some raspberry canes back under the twine to hold them in place when Jake came flying out the back door, yelling:

“Jesus is coming! Jesus is coming!”

I looked up at the blue sky, half-expecting to see Jesus and his angels coming in a cloud. My stomach lurched, and my breath caught, while I silently screamed, “Noooo! I’m not ready!” I thought of all the nights I’d lain awake trying to remember my forgotten sins. And now, Jesus was coming, and it was too late.

Mara ran out the door behind Jake, “Mount St. Helens just blew up! It’s on TV!”

I tried to comprehend her words as I followed my siblings back into the house, leaving the garden gate wide open behind us.

We must’ve watched the replay of the mountain erupting ten times. Then came the stories. Only three people had died in the red zone–a scientist, a reporter, and old Harry Truman, who was obliterated along with his cats and the Spirit Lake Resort.

The rest of the people who died hadn’t even crossed the barricade. Many were campers. Later I heard of one family of four who recorded their conversation on the way up the mountain on a cassette tape. They were joking much like we had the week before. When the kids asked their parents if they would see the mountain blow up, the parents reassured them it was safe. They all died from hot ash filling their lungs. The only difference between their fate and ours was one week.

Daddy’s face grew serious. “We need to make things right with God.” For family devotions, he read a passage from a religious book and gave a long prayer asking God to forgive us for our sins. At the time, it felt like God was a dragon, breathing hot lava and ash down our necks. I went to bed before anyone else—mostly so I could sit up, rock, and pray begging God to save my soul.

A couple weeks later, when we moved yet again, we drove past what was left of Mount St. Helens. I’d seen pictures of it on TV, but seeing it in person was a shock. It was like seeing a disfigured friend for the first time after an accident.

We could smell the Toutle River long before we saw it. I pinched my nostrils shut and breathed through my mouth, but the stench of death was so palpable, I could taste it.

When Mount St. Helens blew on May 18, 1980, it forced the North Fork of the Toutle River to change its course forever. Pyroclastic flows of melted ice and snow created mudflows, washing away bridges on major rivers downstream. Thousands of animals died, and 57 people lost their lives. The stench was a disgusting soup of animal carcasses, mixed with houses, cars, trees, and boulders. A snow-like coating of ash whitened the landscape.

Looking out across the flattened landscape, I felt a kinship to the river. Just as the Toutle had to reroute and twist its way through uncharted territory, carrying the stench of death with it, due to no fault of its own—I had to reimagine my own life, and go with the flow, due to my parents’ stinking choices. As innocent bystanders, we were both forced to leave our comfort zones—and forced to forge a new path beyond the destruction of Mount St. Helens.

There was life on the other side of the volcano, but it was altered. I knew one thing for sure—Daddy’s rules no longer made sense. It was time to find my own true north.

From Chasing Eden: A Memoir

© 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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When we step into the family, by the act of being born, we do step into a world which is incalculable, into a world which has its own strange laws, into a world which could do without us, into a world we have not made. In other words, when we step into the family we step into a fairy tale.

—Gilbert K. Chesterton

You’ve probably heard the saying, “It takes a village.” Well, that’s never more true than when you begin your memoir.

To write a memoir that intrigues your readers, you’ll want to set up your village of characters. It’s not enough to have a good story about you—no story is completely about you. It involves other people who influenced you, fought with or for you, and generally either supported or failed to support your goals in life.

Many people mistakenly think their story is only about them. But unless you were kidnapped and raised in a cave by squirrels (and hey, even that would involve a squirrel village), chances are you had a cast of characters surrounding you as you grew up. This holds true even if you felt completely alone.

Think of Belle, wandering through her alpine village with her nose in a book. She might have felt like a total outsider, but the audience sees a bustling world around her—shopkeepers, goats, a guy who needs six eggs, and lots of cheery “bonjour!”s.

The beginning of your memoir is your chance to introduce your village—the people, places, and dynamics that shaped your early world.

But heads up: it’s not enough to say, “Here’s Bill, and my other brother Bill, and—oh look!—my other brother Bill.” You’ve got to show us who they are as characters, so we can keep them straight.

So, if you do happen to have three brothers named Bill (no judgment), help your reader out. Maybe they’re Bill the Shoemaker, Bill the Candlemaker, and Bill the Butcher. Instantly more memorable, right?

Plus, let’s be honest—Bill the Candlemaker gives cozy, warm vibes. Bill the Shoemaker? Practical and grounded. But Bill the Butcher? The reader is already a little nervous around him... and probably for good reason. (Otherwise, you’d give him a new name—because it’s your memoir, and you can change names.

What Do You Need to Set Up Your Memoir?

1. An Enchanted Hook

(We just discussed this in Chapter 1)

2. Your Unique Voice

In a novel, it would be the voice of the main character or the all-knowing narrator, but in memoir, the narrator is you.

This means your tone, reflection, and vibe really matter. Whether it's hilarious, haunting, or poetic, your voice is the main thing that makes someone fall in love with your way of telling the story—not just the story itself.

Your reader is asking, “Do I trust you to tell me this story?”

And the answer had better be a resounding YES.

3. A Glimpse of Your “Before” World

You’ve got to show us what life looked like in your village—back in the beginning, before “Leaving the Shire” and everything changed.

This is true for both memoir and fiction. The "before" makes the reader feel the contrast when the dominoes start to tumble.

In Educated, we see Tara Westover’s isolated, survivalist life even before she questions it.

In Leaving the Saints, we can feel the clean mountain air, see the well-manicured lawns and beautiful families as Martha arrives in Salt Lake City. It makes us want to live there and wonder why anyone would want to leave.

Without the “before,” the transformation would have no punch.

4. The Stakes (or Why This Story Matters)

You don’t have to lay it all out, but we need inklings of trouble or hints of what’s at risk.

It helps if you can give us a glimpse of what the character wants.

Clue us in to what internal or external pressure might be building.

What’s the emotional or psychological thing you’re chasing—or avoiding?

What family conflict is simmering under the surface?

5. A Sense of Theme or Promise

This might be subtle, but it’s important. You’re planting seeds for the emotional journey ahead.

Will this be a story of resilience? A tale of transformation? A confession? A reckoning? A redemption? A reunion?

You don’t have to spell it out—just toss your reader a few snapshots.

What to Avoid in Your Set Up:

• A giant info-dump or backstory bomb.

• Vague musing without grounding in scene.

• Starting too early (like, “I was born in a small town in 1946…”—Unless you’re Dolly Parton).

• Clichés or generic writing that doesn’t reveal your unique voice.

The Setup Should:

✔ Hook the reader

✔ Introduce your voice

✔ Show the world “before”

✔ Hint at conflict and stakes

✔ Set the emotional tone or promise

If you’re thinking, “Wait, this feels like a lot of puzzle pieces,” you’d be right. But remember, you’re not telling your entire life story—you’re offering a carefully crafted window into it and you only have to take one memory at time.

As one teacher puts it:

Memoir isn’t a summary of a life; it’s a window into a life, very much like a photograph in its selective composition. It may look like a casual and even random calling up of bygone events. It’s not; it’s a deliberate construction.

—William Zinsser

Imagine how intriguing it is to open a book and sense a unique world where you can hear the storyteller’s voice in a reassuring tone, promising that they have a great story to tell. Then, as you keep reading, you start to sense something is unsettled—and you want to get to the heart of it.

If someone else’s memoir has ever pulled you in, now it’s your turn—to sculpt your own into a story worth hearing.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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My mother in 1972 with her parents and children surrounding her.

The biggest bonus for me in writing my childhood memoir was the opportunity to honor the important people in my life. This chapter holds one of my early memories about watching my mother go from living like normal people in a house, to living with four little kids in a 16x 24 cabin on Whidbey Island without any plumbing.

The life of Laura Ingalls Wilder intersected with mine somewhere between Whidbey Island and the banks of Plum Creek. Even though we lived a century apart, I was able to make a smooth transition from modern life to pioneer living, because Laura’s books felt like a letter from a friend. Laura and I had a lot in common. Both of our families moved a lot, and we both knew how to cook over a fire. We adored our fathers and worked hard to help our mothers while exploring the outdoors with our dogs.

It didn’t take long for Daddy to get tired of tripping over four sleeping kids to make a fire every morning, so he made a lean-to porch along the front of the cabin. He stacked the wood on one wall and built a set of double bunk beds on the other. I thought Daddy was the smartest man in the world to make furniture out of plywood. Seven-year-old Mara and I slept on the top bunk with our heads in the middle, while four-year-old Jake and three-year-old Abby slept below us. It was nice to have a bed again, but the narrow path between our bunks and the woodpile meant we often shared it with an occasional spider.

If the Persuader wasn’t hanging in its place next to the stove, I felt jumpy about wherever it might be lurking. In the clutter and chaos of six people living in a small space, it often got lost. I knew from experience it could rear its ugly head in a pile of dirty laundry or under a stack of newspapers. I never knew when it might strike, but I was beginning to realize the Persuader’s rage was triggered more by Daddy’s moods than by something I’d done. At nine years of age, I was learning to stay alert, check the climate of the room, and escape to the woods until things calmed down.

Most of my life I’d stayed safe from the Persuader by being Momma’s right-hand helper, but island life brought new rules. There wasn’t much housework. Nothing to vacuum, only one floor to sweep. One window with no glass to clean. One port-a-potty, which Momma emptied. We had even fewer dishes to wash because Momma relied on paper plates and convenience foods.

The task that took up most of our time was maintaining a fire in the stove. A constant flame was required to keep us warm, along with heating our food and water. We were never through chopping, stacking, and putting wood into the firebox. We had to feed the stove every half hour if we wanted to cook and stay warm.

Despite the coastal dampness, which permeated our bedding and curled the paper in our books, the cabin felt cozy as long as we kept the fire going. The stove was the center of our life. The fiercer the winds outside, the more the fire’s warmth drew us closer toward each other. On rainy days, we hung around the stove long after we had savored Momma’s bread and vegetable stew. If the temperature dropped too much, we huddled in multiple blankets on the king-sized bed to stay warm.

One cloudy day, I was lounging on my moss carpet, next to the hollow log where I hid my treasures. While I read my book, I maintained my solitude by ignoring Abby, who kept calling for me to play hide-and-seek. Her calls were interrupted by the sound of Daddy yelling. I wasn’t surprised to hear him angry, but when my usually quiet Momma raised her voice, I dropped my book and raced up the hill to see what was going on.

As I rounded the corner of the cabin, I saw Momma chasing Daddy with her fists clenched. In one hand was a carrot peeler, which she used to jab at him, before running behind the VW bus. Daddy ran around the bus from the opposite side, but she took another swing at him and reversed her direction.

When Daddy came around and reached toward Momma again, I heard her yell, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

I screamed, “Stop it!” and started to cry.

Daddy jumped into the bus and backed out of the driveway. Once he was gone, I followed Momma inside the cabin. She sat down on a chair, and the other kids and I gathered around her like bodyguards.

Momma was still holding the carrot peeler as if it was a lit candle. She looked like an angel I’d seen in a Christmas book, but her lips were pressed together as if she was determined to set the record straight. When she finally spoke, her tone was intense. I paid close attention.

“As a grown woman, I will never allow any man to lay a hand on me. And I hope you girls, won’t either when you grow up.”

I’d never seen Momma cry about anything. She once told me she and Daddy had made a pact to remain a united front at all times—partially to protect themselves from us kids overpowering them, but also because her own parents’ constant bickering had plagued her childhood.

“What about when Daddy uses the Persuader?”

As soon as I said it, I knew I’d spoken too fast. I could tell Momma’s anger was subsiding when, instead of answering me, she focused on a knothole in the wall. Her lips remained in a tight line while she put the carrot peeler away and stoked the fire. She slumped back into her chair before she spoke. “There’s a difference between punishing a child and punishing a grown woman.”

Momma didn’t say any more, but I could tell she wasn’t going to justify me defending myself against the Persuader.

Momma lowered her voice to a whisper. “Cherie, you can’t tell anyone about the carrot peeler, do you understand? Not Nana, not the kids at school, and especially not the pastor.” Her tone was serious and determined.

I nodded my head in agreement. When she paused, I decided to ask the big question on my mind—even though I was afraid of the answer.

“Are you and Daddy going to get a divorce like Uncle Joe and Aunt Bessie?”

Momma rolled her eyes. “What a ridiculous question! Of course not! That’s one thing you never need to worry about!”

I could tell she meant it. As if rewarding her for staying in her marriage, I tried to cheer her up. “Momma, I don’t mind living in a cabin. It’s fun to live like Little House on the Prairie.”

If I thought my words would encourage her, I was mistaken. Momma bit her lip.

“I’m the kind of woman who likes to have a place for everything and everything in its place, and it’s pretty near darned impossible to live like normal people in this cabin.”

Since we’d moved onto the island, Momma kept talking about normal people. We’d only lived in the cabin a few weeks, and I already knew all the things normal people did and didn’t do. Normal people have a refrigerator and cupboards and beds and sofas and a dining table. Normal people don’t move all the time. Normal people don’t take showers at the state park or heat water on a woodstove unless they are camping. By normal people, Momma meant her parents and grandparents. None of them had lived like this. It was hard for Momma, but she never spoke one disparaging word about Daddy.

Despite not living like normal people, Momma did her best to make the cabin look nice. As soon as Daddy brought the plywood counter inside, she’d opened her hope chest, pulled out a set of curtains with flexible rods and hung them across the edge to hide the pots and pans and food stored underneath. Those curtains gave a sense of order to the cabin, but they were not without one drawback–they also provided a place for spiders to hide.

Momma got up and shuffled through the boxes under the counter. When she screamed, I jumped out of my chair. Momma ran over to the kindling box, grabbed a piece of wood and frantically beat a spider into the plywood floor until it turned into a dark, greasy spot. She went back to the counter, found the box of food coloring, and opened the blue.

“What are you doing?” I knew the fire wasn’t hot enough to bake a cake.

Wearing a little smile on her face, Momma opened a paper sack and pulled out a long stick, and a pint-sized can with the words “latex paint. She motioned toward the unfinished sheet-rock on the kitchen wall, “I’m going to make some blue paint.”

Momma dropped a few drops of the liquid food coloring into the paint and stirred it. The color still looked white, so she dribbled a few more drops into the creamy mixture. Half a bottle later, the paint remained as pale as the sky on a cloudy day. Momma sighed. Blue was her favorite color. Ripping the lid off, she dumped the entire contents into the can of paint. When the paint turned dusky blue, Momma seemed satisfied—as satisfied as a woman can be when she’s about to paint her one finished wall with food coloring.

Momma pulled out a paintbrush and hummed a little song while she painted until she ran out of paint. It was a slight improvement over the unfinished sheetrock, but whenever I wiped the surface with a sponge, it always bled blue, causing the wall to fade in time.

For the first eight years of my life, I’d taken for granted Momma’s nurturing and hard work. She’d sewn my clothes, bought presents for my birthday, and insisted on my taking a bath every night. I’d never been hungry or cold because Momma had always provided whatever I needed. But island life had changed everything, including Momma.

She was stuck in a drafty cabin with a smoky stove and dirty floors and no hot running water unless she built a fire. She had nowhere to bathe her children unless she pulled out a metal tub and filled it and emptied it herself. She was forced to take one shower a week at the state park. If she wanted to use any appliances, including the sewing machine, she had to turn off the TV and lamp, and everyone knows you can’t sew in the dark. After every meal, if we had any leftover food, she had to put it in the cooler since we had no refrigerator. Even that had to be continually be fed more ice from Nana’s freezer.

I hadn’t thought about how much Momma’s life had changed until she pulled out that blue food coloring. Momma, who had once loved to decorate, was stuck with knotholes for décor. She had no space to bake or entertain, and most of her tools were in the shed. When I thought about all the things she couldn’t do anymore, I couldn’t blame Momma for sleeping late every morning.

I wondered how I could stay safe from the Persuader. Momma often complained about her feet hurting, so I sat down on the plywood floor, next to the dead spider and rubbed her feet. We didn’t have any lotion, but I massaged her toes through her socks.

“Don’t worry, Momma. I’ll help you! When I grow up, I’m going to buy you a house so we can live like normal people.”

I said it to cheer her up, but also because I figured that’s what Laura would say.

© 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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At the centre of every fairy tale lay a truth that gave the story its power.
—Susan Wiggs

Every interesting memoir is secretly whispering a question to the reader.

Just as a fairytale begins with a spell—something that lures us in before we even realize we’ve been snagged—your memoir begins with a hook.

It doesn’t have to be a single dazzling sentence, though it can be. It might even stretch across an entire paragraph. The hook has one job, and it’s the most important one—to keep the reader reading.

Think of your hook as the shiny apple that tempts the reader into your world. It’s the glimmering promise of something juicy—maybe even a little dangerous. And once they take a bite? They’re in.

That’s why the hook matters so much. Without it, the rest of your story might never get the chance to shine.

And lucky for you, all you need to do is pique their curiosity with an unanswered question.

But What Exactly Is the Hook?

The hook is some sort of overarching question, spoken or implied, that keeps the reader turning pages. Without it, they’ll yawn, stretch, and set your book down to reorganize their sock drawer. You need to give them a reason to keep reading.

Now, I know what you might be thinking.

"Welp, that counts me out. I don’t have a hook. I can’t just make one up, so I guess I should stop writing now."

Ha. Nice try, but I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.

Here’s the secret. Your hook is one of the easiest things to figure out once you know what to look for.

And trust me, your memoir does have one… even if it’s still hiding under the floorboards with the dust bunnies and emotional baggage.

Let’s break it down.

A great hook can take the form of:

• A mystery

• An unexpected confession

• A powerful emotion

• An overarching question

• A dramatic scene out of order (in medias res)

The reader should immediately wonder—what the heck is going on here—and why?

How Can I Find My Hook?

If you can remember that the hook is simply a very good, curiosity-sparking question, you’ll pass your first quest on the path to becoming a memoir writer.

Let me lift the lid on this metaphorical cauldron of hooks and stir up some steamy, soul-stirring examples of the secret questions that memoirs ask. Hooks are the invisible threads that pull readers in, even if they don’t consciously realize it. Think of them like the glowing runes beneath your story—they guide everything.

Mysterious Hooky Questions

• What really happened that night?

• Is it betrayal for you to tell the story they tried to bury?

• Can the truth set you free… even if no one believes you?

• Will you ever truly belong?

• What happens when you finally stop chasing someone’s approval?

• How do you speak the truth when your family worships silence?

• Can you reclaim the parts of you lost while trying to be “good”?

• How do you keep going when everything is falling apart?

• Is it possible to find hope in a life shaped by trauma?

• What do you do with a grief that never ends?

• Can you love yourself after being told you were unlovable?

• What does healing really look like?

• What really happened, and why won’t anyone talk about it?

• What happens when your roots and your wings pull in opposite directions?

• What does love look like when you live authentically?

As you can see, I’ve given you a cauldron full of questions—but don’t feel like you have to use one of these.

Your Hook Should Be Unique to Your Story

To find your question, you might need to start with the answer. Ask yourself what your memoir is trying to tell the world—then flip it into a question.

Here’s an example:

In his memoir Spare, Prince Harry wanted the world to know that he would no longer be defined as “the spare”—a title he’d carried since birth.

By reversing that statement, the heart of his memoir becomes a question:

What will it take for someone born into a life of privilege and rigid expectations to break free and live on their own terms?

And what obstacles must he overcome to be seen as a whole, worthy individual, instead of just being the understudy to his older brother’s role as future king?

Now, don’t get discouraged if your hook doesn’t just pop into your head fully formed. All good writing is actually deep thinking. So take your time. Sit with your story. Figure out what your memoir is truly about before you get married to your hook.

What If You Still Can’t Find the Perfect Hook?

Make a list of several possible hooks. Don’t toss anything out until you’ve written far enough into your memoir to truly understand what your story is about. Then go back and make sure the hook you chose leads the reader toward your deepest truth—yes, even the messy, shadowy parts.

Oh—and you can have more than one hook as you write your way through the book. So keep them handy. You might want to use all of them.

Here’s another example from Prince Harry in Spare:

“There were always stories… Balmoral was always simply paradise…”

Then he goes on to describe that some thought it a bit dark and scary, but he only saw what a wonderful place it was—and that he might never have been happier than on the day his mother died (before he got the phone call that changed everything). He wondered if the story of his mother, Princess Diana’s death, was really true—or just a cover-up.

Now Harry’s hook goes even deeper:

What happens to a boy who grows up in the public eye, convinced the greatest loss of his life might be a lie?

This isn’t just juicy gossip—it’s a primal grief, full of denial, fantasy, and provokes the beginning of a lifelong reckoning.

When you finally find your own question, write it down. Circle it. Tape it to your writing desk.

This is your North Star—and your reader’s reason to stay enchanted.

Because that’s your hook. And it’s more powerful than any magic spell.

How to Use Your Hook

Once you’ve found your hook, you might be wondering what to do with it.

Your hook should shimmer at the very beginning of your memoir—ideally within the first few pages. It doesn’t have to be spelled out in neon lights (unless that’s your vibe), but it should whisper to the reader, “Something happened… and you’re going to want to know what.”

But don’t whisper too softly. The hook needs to be a clear question. You can’t reel anyone in with a vague glimmer of something-or-other (yawn). Sometimes, whispers put people to sleep—and that is absolutely not what you want on page one.

You want to stoke the fire in your first paragraph—and keep your reader wide-eyed and wanting more.

Think of the hook as planting a golden seed. The reader doesn’t need to see the whole tree yet. They just need to believe it’s going to grow into something worth watching.

Your job is to weave that question—your hook—through your scenes. Let it build tension. Let it deepen in meaning. And by the end? Let it deliver something that makes the journey worth it.

How to Couch Your Hook

Think of your hook like a furry little pet that needs a cozy place to sit and be the center of attention. You wouldn’t just plop your adorable frog, mouse, rabbit, dog, or cat on a cold bench. You’d give it a cushy sofa, a soft blankie, a few snacks, and maybe even a sparkly collar.

Your hook deserves the same kind of treatment.

Start by painting the setting. Are you indoors or out? City lights or country nights?

Then introduce yourself to the reader. They’ll want to know who this story—and this question—is really about.

Slip your hooky little question into these elements as you set the tone for the story you’re about to tell.

So don’t just find your hook. Work it. Tease it. Let it lead your reader through the dark forest of your story, one breadcrumb at a time.

Here Are More Examples of Memoir Hooks:

Leaving the Saints – Martha Beck

She opens by telling her dying father that she remembers what he did to her as a child.
Plot twist: He might be mentally unable to acknowledge his actions in the past.

What happens when telling your truth means losing your family, your faith, and your place in the world?

Hook level: Nuclear.

Sorry for the Inconvenience – Farah Naz Rishi

“One of the only reasons I took this class was to meet a boy. Preferably a nice Muslim boy my parents would approve of.”

How do you reconcile the life you want with the life expected of you—especially when love and identity are at stake?

Educated – Tara Westover

“I am only seven, but I understand that it is this fact… we don’t go to school.”

What happens to a girl raised by extremist parents, denied formal education, and taught to fear the world—when she dares to seek knowledge anyway?

The Hiding Place – Corrie Ten Boom

A joyful celebration with quiet notes of sorrow. And then:

“Although the party was for Father, he himself took almost no part in it.”

What happens when a Christian family known for kindness is drawn into a nightmare, and decides to fight back?

Who Could Ever Love You – Mary L. Trump

“I exhaled as the needle slid into my arm.”

She’s undergoing ketamine therapy.

What events and family dynamics led Mary Trump to such a profound intervention—and how has her journey shaped her understanding of love and self-worth?

Let this be your takeaway:

Your hook isn’t just a moment. It’s a mystery. A promise. A question with soul.

And it’s the very thing that turns your story into a spell your reader can’t stop wondering about.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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Do you ever wake up in crisis mode? This morning I found myself thinking, “I need to write my truth, but also, the world’s on fire and my cat just threw up on the rug.”

Let’s be real—it’s hard to write these days. Every time I sit down to work on my next memoir, another crisis breaks the news cycle. The world feels like it’s held together by duct tape and lies. So the little gremlin voice in my head goes:

“Why does my story even matter right now?”

But that’s exactly why our stories matter.

Frodo said he wished it had not happened in his time. I wish it weren’t happening in my time. I bet you do too. We didn’t get to choose the time—we can only work with the time we’re given.

As if in response to Frodo, Toni Morrison said:

This is precisely the time when artists go to work—not when everything is fine, but in times of dread. That’s our job! —Toni Morrison

Toni is right. When the world feels like a dumpster fire of bad news, we need the truth-tellers, the memory-keepers, the survivors with pens in their hands and fire in their bellies to write the hard truth.

Writing your memoir isn’t selfish. It’s survival work. It’s soul CPR. It’s saying, “I made it through this awkward, messy, heartbreaking experience—and here’s how.”

You might be writing about the past or current events. Heather Cox Richardson writes Letters From an American every night. She’s writing to someone one hundred years from now to chronicle what’s going on in the United States right now.

She reminds me of that song “The Story of Tonight” from Hamilton—a toast to telling the story now, for those who’ll read it later.

We never know for sure what record we’ll leave behind, but if we don’t write, we won’t leave any record at all. How sad it would be if those in the past had not shared their stories.

You might not be a historian like Heather Cox Richardson or Hamilton, but you still have experiences that you’re going through (or have been through), that are important to document for future readers.

Who would have imagined a girl both deaf and blind could have anything of value to tell the world—and yet, Helen Keller became one of the most profound voices of her time.

When we do the best that we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another. ― Helen Keller

Your story might be the lifeline someone needs when they’re slipping under. It might not fix the world, but it can light the way for someone stumbling through the dark.

So yes, the world might seem to be on fire, but you’ve got a story worth telling—and it might just be the spark someone else needs to keep going.

And if you’re feeling stuck on how to tell it, or wondering where to even begin, I’ve got a little magic up my sleeve.

Framing Your Memoir Through the Fairytale Lens is my book for folks who want to turn their lived experience into powerful story—not just a list of sad events, but a transformational tale. Think of it as a vitamin drink to get you started on your memoir journey. It’s short and sweet, but full of food for thought to get your memoir juices flowing.

So it’s Memoir Monday. A good day to grab your favorite beverage and take a moment to figure out just one element to move your story forward. You’ll be glad you did. History has its eyes on you.

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It’s strange how you give the people you love so much power over you.
—Tara Westover

At first glance, fundamentalist survivor memoirs might seem like the dark, dystopian cousins of Hallmark Christmas movies. Swap out the cozy small town for an apocalyptic landscape with controlling parents, toss in a hefty dose of fearmongering, and you’ve got endless variations on the same theme—except no two survivors, no two families, and no two belief systems are ever exactly alike.

Tolstoy nailed it:

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
—Leo Tolstoy

When twisted theology runs the show, every decision feels like life or death. Survivors of these worlds grow up under a constant, fictional ticking clock—whether it’s called the apocalypse, the time of trouble, or the desolation—the label doesn’t matter. It’s the looming doom that leaves its mark.

Regardless of denomination, the fundamentalist ingredients rarely change—distrust of the outside world, belief in impending catastrophe, stockpiling supplies, and rejecting medical care. It’s a recipe for isolation and control, all disguised as righteousness.

The themes might repeat, but the details are new. Crack open any of these memoirs, and a unique story unravels every time.

Tara Westover’s Educated checks all the familiar boxes—religious extremism, isolation, end-times prepping—but it ups the ante with a reckless, accident-prone father, a neglectful mother, and an abusive sibling to keep things harrowing. If you’re looking for a memoir packed with blood, broken bones, gaslighting, spiritual manipulation, and a heavy dose of scapegoating, this one delivers.

How Does Educated Align with the Fairytale Lens?

1. A Hero Who Transforms

What sets Tara apart from her parents is her sincerity—her unshakable curiosity in a family where questioning the status quo invites punishment. Long before she found her wings, she was already a hero—a little girl quietly challenging the madness swirling around her. Watching her resist the lies, even as a child, makes her eventual escape all the more rewarding. This isn’t just a story of leaving—it’s a story of transformation, of reclaiming her mind and spirit from the grip of emotional and spiritual control.

2. A Villain Who Neglects or Abuses

These parents choose ignorance at every turn—refusing to see beyond their own warped worldview. Their misadventures could rival the worst Disney villains, except the damage they cause isn’t animated or exaggerated. The wounds they inflict on themselves and their children are all too real.

3. A Fairy Godmother Who Empowers

While most of her family perpetuates the dysfunction, Tara’s oldest brother Tyler is one of the first people who encourages her to pursue an education. He leaves home, goes to college, and plants that initial seed in Tara’s mind—that there’s another way to live.

4. A Kindred Spirit for Companionship

In an isolated family, childhood friends are often limited to siblings. For Tara, her brother Shawn was that friend—protective and playful, taking her on motorcycle rides and making her laugh. They shared real moments of connection, where he treated her with kindness and loyalty. But in a cruel plot twist, that bond unraveled. His protectiveness turned possessive, then violent. The person she once trusted became one of her greatest sources of pain. There’s nothing sadder than realizing your kindred spirit was a mirage.

5. A Life-and-Death Struggle

Tara’s memoir stands out because her entire family stumbles from one life-and-death crisis to the next—most sparked by her father’s impulsiveness and recklessness. Surviving childhood feels like a miracle. But the real battle begins after she leaves home, as Tara fights for her sanity—still navigating the emotional and spiritual abuse her parents continue to dish out.

6. A Three-Act Story

Tara’s memoir naturally falls into a classic three-act structure. First, the childhood stories—full of danger, isolation, and fundamentalist control. Then comes Act Two—leaving home, struggling to blend into society and navigate university life, all while carrying the weight of her upbringing. Finally, the third act zeroes in on her internal battle to know and accept herself, even as her father relentlessly tries to destroy her sense of self, dismissing her accomplishments and autonomy at every turn.

7. Magical or Spiritual Elements

There’s not much here in the way of miracles or magic—perhaps because Tara’s parents have weaponized magical thinking into a life-threatening art form. Any glimmers of faith or wonder are overshadowed by their fanatical beliefs, leaving little room for genuine spirituality.

8. An Ending that Resonates

Anyone who’s dealt with fundamentalist parents will instantly recognize Tara’s struggle. Her attempts to reach, reason with, and educate her narrow-minded parents are both heartbreaking and chilling. It’s hard to imagine people so fiercely committed to ignorance they’d tear down their own daughter simply for outgrowing their small world and daring to think differently. Tara’s real triumph isn’t just her education—it’s how she stands firm in her values, even when reconciliation with her parents proves impossible.

In the end, Educated isn’t just about escaping a dystopian fairytale—it’s proof that even when the wicked spell won’t break, you can still walk away, write your own ending, and live to tell the tale.

What I Love About This Memoir

Tara found her education, but it wasn’t handed to her—it was clawed for, earned inch by inch. And she wears the victory wreath with both dignity and humility.
Tara’s vulnerability in telling her story—even as her parents actively work to discredit her—touched my writer’s heart. I know that girl. I’ve been her.

As much as I admire Tara’s triumph, there were moments I had to physically close the book. The injury scenes are brutal—almost too much to stomach. This raises an important question for any memoirist writing about abuse or violence—how do we tell the truth without making our readers feel like they need to come up for air?

Educated is not for the faint of heart. It will challenge you, anger you, maybe even exhaust you. But by the end, it leaves you with something essential—hope, hard-won and defiant, proving that even in the hardest soil, something resilient can grow.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lurking in the shadows of every miserable childhood is a fairy godmother, waiting to help—like a benevolent stalker of goodwill, minus the creepy factor.

Of course, some people will insist they never had a fairy godmother. Maybe they reject the idea on religious grounds—no room for make-believe. Or maybe they just can’t picture a whimsical little fairy waving a wand and granting them a magical glow-up. Let’s be honest: unless you’re starring on a reality show, the odds of that happening are pretty slim.

But just because you didn’t get a pumpkin carriage and a sparkly ball gown doesn’t mean no one ever gave you a leg up.

Every Good Memoir Has a Fairy Godmother

There’s a saying—“You’re the one you’ve been waiting for.” And sure, taking charge of your own story is crucial, but let’s not pretend we do this life thing solo. Humans aren’t born self-sufficient—we show up tiny, screaming, and completely dependent on others to keep us alive. And even after we’ve mastered walking and talking, we still need a little help now and then.

A fairy godmother doesn’t have to be a sparkly woman with a wand. Sometimes, they show up as a mentor, a teacher, a friend, or even a stranger who gives you just the right tools at the right time. Maybe they offered wisdom, encouragement, or the inspiration to chase your dreams. The point is, none of us achieve our goals without someone sprinkling a little magic dust in our path.

So, the question isn’t whether you had a fairy godmother—it’s more about who they were and how they shaped you.

Maybe you’ve always pictured them as a tiny sprite in a ballgown, but in reality, fairy godmothers come in many forms—benefactor, angel, teacher, guru, guide, mentor. However they appear, their purpose is the same—to empower you at just the right moment.

Their time with you might have been fleeting. Maybe you’ve had more than one. But whether their impact was loud and obvious or subtle and unexpected, their encouragement or advice changed your life.

Don’t you know," she said pityingly, "that everybody’s got a Fairyland of their own?
—P.L. Travers, Mary Poppins

Examples of Fairy Godmothers in Folklore

Throughout folklore, fairy godmothers have long embodied the role of unexpected aid and encouragement. Let’s explore a few well-known examples.

• Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother is the quintessential figure that comes to mind because her reputation precedes her. She didn’t just wave her wand—she threw in a pumpkin coach, couture footwear, and a night out on the town. Talk about a VIP upgrade! Not every fairy godmother provides such accouterments, but maybe you can think of someone who loaned you their car or provided a place to stay.

• Pinocchio’s Blue Fairy guided him toward honesty, helping him become a “real boy.” Because nothing says ‘life lesson’ like your nose doubling as a tree branch. Good thing she was there to steer him toward honesty before he needed a chainsaw. Maybe you’ve encountered someone who encouraged you to embrace authenticity, leading to more genuine relationships.

• Sleeping Beauty’s Three Fairy Godmothers played a pivotal role in her fate. Two fairies gave her beauty and musical talent—pretty standard gifts. But one altered Maleficent’s curse and basically saved her from becoming the original Game of Thrones casualty. Perhaps you’ve had someone in your life who couldn’t erase your hardships but softened the impact of another’s cruelty.

• Grandmother Willow in Pocahontas lent her wisdom and reassurance, encouraging Pocahontas to trust her instincts and find her own path. She’s proof that sometimes the wisest mentor isn’t a wand-wielding fairy but a tree with serious therapist vibes. Can you think of someone who taught you to listen to your inner voice and speak your truth?

Fairy Godmothers Come in Many Forms

Fairy godmothers don’t fit into a single mold. Some are stern and quiet, dishing out wisdom with a raised eyebrow and a cryptic one-liner. Others are eccentric and over-the-top, as if they just downed a double shot of espresso with a Red Bull chaser. Some provide tangible assistance—money, scholarships, or shelter. Others might intervene in a moment of abuse or neglect. Some offer wisdom and guidance, arriving at just the right time, often when you’re on the verge of giving up.

Many fairy godmothers have overcome their own challenges, making them uniquely equipped to guide others. Whatever form they take, their gifts—whether encouragement, wisdom, or resources—empower us to move forward.

Examples of Fairy Godmothers in Memoirs

• Leaving the Saints by Martha Beck —A woman steps out of the shadows to validate Martha, proving that sometimes a fairy godmother is the one who tells you that you’re not crazy.

• The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom —Faith in God served as the ultimate source of empowerment, giving Corrie the strength to survive and share her story.

• Who Could Ever Love You by Mary L. Trump —A camp counselor and a teacher provided the nurturing Mary lacked at home, shaping her love for books and encouraging her self-worth.

• Be Ready When the Luck Happens by Ina Garten —Ina’s grandmother nurtured her love of food and hospitality, planting the seeds for her future career.

• Sorry for the Inconvenience by Farah Naz Rishi —A childhood teacher and an unexpected friend helped Farah navigate trauma and embrace her true self.

• Spare by Prince Harry —A mentor in the African bush gave Harry peace away from paparazzi, showing him the value of solitude and self-discovery.

What If You Can’t Find Your Fairy Godmother?

Maybe you’re wondering if you even had a fairy godmother. Remember fairy godmothers don’t always appear in grand gestures—sometimes, their influence is subtle. Perhaps their impact wasn’t clear until years later.

Look for the Helpers

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.
—Fred Rogers

Fairy godmothers are “helpers,” who often emerge when we need them the most. Their impact may seem small at the time, but in hindsight, they may have altered the course of your life. While memoirs often focus on hardship and trauma, it’s just as important to acknowledge the helpers.

Think back to the turning points in your life. What made you change course? Who offered encouragement, advice, or a critical resource at just the right moment? List all the people who’ve helped you throughout your life. Chances are, you’ve had more than one fairy godmother. You don’t have to write about all of them—just those essential to your story.

Writing About Your Fairy Godmother Can Be a Gift

You’ve claimed your hero status. You’ve unmasked the villain. Now, it’s time to acknowledge your fairy godmother. Because memoirs aren’t just about hardship—they’re about hope. And when you honor the fairy godmothers who’ve sprinkled a little magic into your life, you lighten your own load, add a touch of sparkle to your story, and remind readers that kindness and guidance exist, even in the darkest of times. Recognizing their role is one of the greatest joys of writing a memoir.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from my book How to Frame Your Memoir Through the Fairytale Lens.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles. —Christopher Reeve

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away (probably your childhood home), you faced challenges, endured hardships, and grew into the person you are today. But do you see yourself as a hero? You should. Because when it comes to writing a memoir, you are the protagonist. The main character. The chosen one. Your story isn’t just about what happened to you—it’s about how you transformed.

And yet, you might be thinking, “But I’m no hero (or shero, if you prefer a little extra flair). What have I done to inspire anyone?” Don’t worry—being a hero isn’t about slaying dragons or wearing a cape (although, if you have one, I fully support it). Heroes come in all forms, and chances are, you’ve been one all along.

As Gandalf wisely said:

I have found that it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love. —J.R.R. Tolkien

Even if you feel like “ordinary folk,” your truth can inspire others. In The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls shows us that it’s okay to have been poor, homeless, or neglected—because as children, those circumstances were never our choice. Just as we don’t blame Cinderella for her rags, we don’t blame Jeannette for the cardboard box she once called a bed. In her memoir, Walls dismantles the stigma around childhood neglect and reminds us that surviving a rough childhood isn’t something to be ashamed of—it’s a triumph.

Jeannette Walls became a hero twice—once for surviving and again for writing about it. By calling things as they were, she freed herself from shame and, in doing so, gave that same gift to every child who grew up without stability.

The first step in writing your memoir is recognizing the hero within. Let’s explore some hero archetypes to help you discover your heroic style.

Hero Archetypes

1. Seeker Hero
If your story is about chasing freedom, truth, justice, love, or belonging, you’re a Seeker. Your readers will join you on your quest for answers, revelations, and maybe a few plot twists. In Leaving the Saints, Martha Beck sought the truth about her childhood, her father, and her church, and uncovered some life-altering secrets along the way.

2. Protector Hero

You stand up for what’s right, defend the vulnerable, and shield others from harm. Think Corrie ten Boom in The Hiding Place, risking everything to protect people during WWII. Whether you’ve shielded a friend from harm, stood up to injustice, or simply kept a sibling’s secret longer than you should have, your role as a protector is worth telling.

3. Healer Hero

Some heroes overcome fear, shame, toxic relationships, or the loss of a loved one. Farah Naz Rishi, in Sorry for the Inconvenience, shares her journey of healing from a narcissistic mother and the devastating loss of her entire family. Sharing how you found peace and forgiveness can inspire your readers to begin their own healing journey.

4. Rebel Hero

If you’ve ever flipped a table (literally or figuratively), challenged the status quo, or walked away from an oppressive system, you’re a Rebel Hero. Prince Harry in Spare redefined his role, defied tradition, and sent the royal tea spilling across the tabloids. If you’ve ever felt like the black sheep, your story will resonate with fellow misfits and changemakers.

5. Innovator Hero

Some heroes create—whether they craft new identities, opportunities, or communities. They rebuild families and society from the wreckage of their past, offering hope for those who feel stuck. Ina Garten, in Be Ready When the Luck Happens, overcame her parents’ expectations and carved out a wildly successful life. If reinvention is your superpower, embrace your role as an Innovator Hero.

6. Witness Hero

Sometimes, the hero’s role is simply to witness life’s complexities and share the truth. This brave act of storytelling validates the experience of others and reminds the reader they’re not alone. Mary Trump, in Too Much and Never Enough, bore witness to a family empire built on narcissism. If you’ve spent a lifetime observing and feel compelled to speak your truth, your perspective can be a powerful force to help society recognize the evils of toxic families.

What Type of Hero Are You?

These are just a few examples of heroes. By portraying any of them, you can create a memoir with rich, layered storytelling that engages and inspires.

You might instantly recognize your role in life, or you might need time to reflect on your struggles and relationships. You may even find that none of the usual labels fit—and that’s okay. The goal of being a hero isn’t to invent a role but to discover the one you’ve already been playing.

The truth is, you’ve been a hero for most of your life. Now, it’s up to you to figure out exactly what that role has been. If you’re unsure right now, don’t worry. Just keep these roles in mind and embrace the idea of seeing yourself as the hero while you piece together the rest of your fairytale.

You're Writing for Your Audience, Not Your Critics

It’s natural to worry that others (especially your ugly step-sister) might challenge your hero status. But remember, your memoir isn’t for them. It’s for the people who will see themselves in your journey. It’s for your kindred spirits, not your critics. Teddy Roosevelt knew a thing or two about critics and penned one of history’s most famous speeches:

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena... —Theodore Roosevelt

The person in the arena is the true hero. When someone questions your truth, just smile sweetly and say, “Well, that’s how I remember it. Feel free to write your own memoir.” (And then sip your mocha like the dignified hero you are.)

From Victim to Hero: The Essential Transformation

Let’s be real—most of us start our stories as victims. Childhood, family dynamics, or life circumstances put us in situations we couldn’t control. But here’s the kicker: a memoir that stays in victim mode becomes a rant, not a transformation.

A hero rises. They learn, adapt, and take back their power. Even Cinderella had to put on the glass slipper and walk out the door.

If your story is just a list of grievances, your readers may feel sympathy—but they won’t feel moved. What inspires people is the moment you take charge of your narrative and become the hero of your own life.

Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do. —Brené Brown

Embracing Your Hero’s Role

Framing your memoir through the Fairytale Lens means embracing every part of yourself—the victim, the survivor, and ultimately, the hero. Your story isn’t just about what happened; it’s about how you rose. The real magic isn’t in the struggle—it’s in the transformation.

Sometimes, the most heroic act is simply becoming yourself.

After enduring abuse from an older brother and forced isolation by her controlling, fanatical parents, Tara Westover broke free to build her own life. But did her family see her as a hero?

In one of the most heart-wrenching scenes of Educated, Tara describes a battle with her father:

If I yielded now, I would lose more than an argument. I would lose custody of my own mind. This was the price I was being asked to pay, I understood that now. What my father wanted to cast from me wasn’t a demon: it was me.

Tara’s story reminds us that sometimes, being the hero means refusing to be anyone but yourself.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from How to Frame Your Memoir Through the Fairytale Lens.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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I was physically afraid of my dad... So I basically spent my entire childhood in my bedroom with the door closed. And I think it was protection. I was trying to keep myself safe. So I had a very lonely childhood. – Ina Garten

Millions of people have been loyal members of the Ina Garten fan club, swooning over her Barefoot Contessa brand for years. Until recently, I wasn’t one of them. I couldn’t have picked her out of a culinary lineup, let alone told you her story. But then I caught part of an interview where she spoke about her strict childhood and being hit by her father—and I froze mid-scroll and ordered her book.

Two weeks and one audiobook later, I’m officially a convert. Not just because of her Beatty’s Chocolate Cake skills (though, yes please) but because of her journey—from neglected child to beloved business mogul. Turns out Ina’s not just dishing up Perfect Roast Chicken—she’s serving a masterclass in resilience.

Her memoir, Be Ready When the Luck Happens—narrated in her own warm, familiar voice—reads like a modern-day fairytale. Just swap out the poison apple for an austere childhood and the wicked stepmother for a stern, emotionally absent mother.

For reasons that may forever baffle, her parents seemed to believe that children didn’t need to play. No Candyland. No candy. No dolls. No Legos. Absolutely no Monopoly. It was all rules—no recess—and not a single lighthearted giggle echoing down the hallways.

Offering neither treats nor comfort, Ina’s mother was consumed with outward appearances and “healthy eating.” Convinced that food should be bland and simple, she refused to cook flavorful meals. And snacks? Nothing more than an apple. Ice cream on a day out in the city? Forget it—joy wasn’t on the menu.

And food wasn’t the only place her mother fell short. When Ina was sick, she was left alone in her room with nothing but a bell to ring if she needed something. Cue the world’s loneliest room service.

But amid all that rigidity, a single bright spot appeared—an uncle’s gift of a tea set. It became Ina’s lifeline. Even though her tea parties were missing the usual teddy bear gossip, she carved out her own small world of ritual and comfort. A tea party for one—no cookies, no company—but a flicker of imagination and quiet escape. That small, solitary joy planted a seed of resilience she’d later draw upon to build a vibrant, nurturing life.

But magic wasn’t entirely absent. Ina’s paternal grandmother, Bessie, was a beacon of warmth. A generous cook, Bessie offered Ina her first real taste of the joy that food and hospitality can bring. From hugs to homemade meals, Bessie’s love whispered what her parents never did—that love could be felt through a plate of something delicious. Those early moments with Bessie laid the groundwork for Ina’s future passion for creating connection and comfort through food.

Using the fairytale lens, we can explore Ina’s memoir as a modern-day fairytale of overcoming adversity and seizing opportunity.

How Does Be Ready When the Luck Happens Align with the Fairytale Lens?

1. A Hero Who Transforms

Despite all that deprivation, Ina’s spirit wasn’t broken. Sharpening her creativity and determination, it only fueled her transformation from overlooked child to culinary queen.

2. A Villain Who Neglects or Abuses

The villains in this story are Ina’s parents, each in their own way. Her father, gregarious to others, was harsh and physically abusive to Ina. He demanded perfection, punishing her for the slightest failure by hitting her and pulling her hair. Her mother—cold and neglectful—didn’t provide the nurturing most mothers offer their children.

3. A Fairy Godmother Who Empowers

Enter Bessie, Ina’s paternal grandmother—the OG Fairy Godmother with a mixing bowl instead of a wand. She hugged, she cooked, and she showed Ina the magic of hospitality. Bessie even brought home a pink dress from Paris, which might as well have been an enchanted robe to young Ina. No pumpkin carriage, but close enough. Those early lessons in love and flavor would go on to become the bedrock of Ina’s empire.

4. A Kindred Spirit for Companionship

Like Rapunzel in a tower, Ina grew up isolated—even from her only sibling. She and her brother marveled as adults that they had never even entered each other’s bedrooms. Fortunately, school provided her with lifelong friends who became her chosen family. Those friendships offered the emotional support she lacked at home and became a continued source of strength throughout her life. Ina’s husband, Jeffrey, whom she met when she was fifteen, became her ultimate kindred spirit.

5. A Life-and-Death Struggle

No dragons here, but something equally terrifying—government bureaucracy. Ina started her career in Washington, working with two U.S. presidents. Impressive on paper, but soul-crushing in reality. Leaving that stable (read: stifling) career to buy a specialty food store—with zero experience—was her leap off the cliff. It wasn’t just a career pivot—it was a defiance of the emotionally deadening life she'd been handed.

6. A Three-Act Story

Her story follows classic fairytale form—Act 1 begins with a childhood ruled by cold, controlling parents. In Act 2, she breaks free, faces uncertainty, and redefines life on her own terms. And in Act 3, her dreams are fulfilled—successful stores, bestselling cookbooks, and a TV career she never sought but nailed anyway.

7. Magical or Spiritual Elements

No fairy dust, but something just as potent—grit, timing, and knowing when to jump at opportunity. Whether it was buying that first store, saying yes to a book deal, or (reluctantly) stepping in front of a camera, Ina trusted her gut and leaned in. The magic? It’s right there in the title—Be Ready When the Luck Happens. Translation—bake the cake, set the table, and keep the door open—you never know when opportunity’s about to knock.

8. An Ending That Resonates

For aspiring entrepreneurs, Ina’s story offers inspiration and practical wisdom. For die-hard fans, it’s full of cozy behind-the-scenes glimpses, celebrity dinner parties, and enough food talk to make you raid your pantry. Ina’s honest, self-effacing voice makes it feel like she’s sitting beside you, sipping something fabulous, telling you that yes—you too can build the life you want.

What I Love About This Memoir

If fairytales teach us anything, it’s that a villain's cruelty often lights a fire in the hero. And in Ina’s case, every bland dinner and lonely bell-ringing sick day only strengthened her resolve to create a different, warmer world.

But here’s the kicker—that lonely little girl grew up to nourish millions. She gave the world the food and comfort she never received—and if that’s not a modern fairytale, I don’t know what is.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from my book How to Frame Your Memoir Through the Fairytale Lens.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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The year was 1976, and The United States was celebrating its bicentennial that summer. I was turning 13 and a “Bible thumper.” That’s what they call Christians who knock on doors, handing out literature to proselytize other people.

The pastor who baptized me earlier that year was big on evangelism. He believed every member of the church should be a witness. My father, who took theology in college, wholeheartedly agreed with him.

That summer, we had a great incentive to convert souls. A Christian was running for president. You might think a Christian candidate was good news for other Christians, but that wasn’t the case at our house. Even though we were going door to door to convert others to the cross of Christ, we rejected Jimmy Carter because he was “born again.” For some reason, many in our church saw him as a dangerous zealot who would ruin our country.

Even now, I can feel the chills running down my spine as I remember my dad and the pastor discussing all the terrible things that would happen if Carter was elected. They discussed how he was from a no-good family with a drunk brother and a sister who was—heaven forbid—a woman pastor. However, his family’s black sheep set aside, the worst fear was that Jimmy Carter would force his Sunday-keeping religion on those of us who kept Saturday for our Sabbath. Many in our denomination believed this would bring about the end of the world.

Since I feared the world was about to end, and we were racing against time to save souls, I threw myself into being the best witness possible. And no one was more faithful than I was when it came to knocking on doors. I had no fear of strangers.

Very few people took us up on our offer to visit our church or come to a Bible study, but I was mindful to smile and wish them a nice day anyway.

The evangelical efforts of my family brought a total of two and a half converts. The two were a set of twins in their early 20s, who were in the Navy. When we knocked on their door, they had books from almost every denomination on their table, but they had never met someone from our church before.

The twins immediately started Bible studies with my dad and came to church the next week.

My mother, who once dreamed of being a pastor’s wife, took her role as hostess seriously. She prepared gourmet vegetarian meals that even the most diehard carnivore swooned over. My sisters and I began a long season of helping my mom prepare delicious meals, while we had the twins and their friends over every week after church.

In time, the twins got baptized and merged into our family and church. They seemed like thoughtful young men. After weeks of dinners where we had only a small table and a couple of camp chairs, they showed up in their 1950s Cadillac with a furniture store truck that delivered an entire dark wood, colonial dining set with six chairs.

My mom was excited to have a real table, and my dad was thrilled to have two baptized converts—stars on his crown. Stars on all of our crowns, the pastor said, because we’d all had a part in their conversion.

Now, when I say we had a half-convert, I might be stretching it a little, but that’s what we thought at the time. The half-convert was a man in his sixties whose wife was a Christian doctor. He was not a believer, but he loved his wife and supported her humanitarian work on missions around the world. Despite not being a believer, he seemed interested in the Sabbath, so Daddy reasoned there must be hope for him.

When we knocked on this man’s door, he and Daddy talked for hours. He and his wife lived in one of the first fisherman cabins built on Whidbey Island. The location was on the east side of the island and protected from the strongest winds, but it had a wonderful view of the sound and overlooked a small spit where we often walked and collected rocks.

We became friends with “Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl,” as they asked us to call them. Herman loved Volkswagens, and my dad was a Volkswagen mechanic who often bought old bugs and rebuilt the engines before selling them.

Uncle Herman ended up buying one of my dad’s VWs. It was bright orange, and he frequently came by with questions about the engine. Was it supposed to make that vibrating noise? Daddy reassured him that a good Volkswagen purred like a cat.

After several surprise visits to our house to ask about a new concern, Daddy told Uncle Herman he was like an old lady who worried too much. Looking back, I suspect Herman was lonely and wanted an excuse to visit us. He often brought a tin of Aunt Beryl’s homemade peanut brittle.

From the first day we met him, Daddy discussed the Sabbath and his worries about Jimmy Carter winning the election and forcing Sunday laws on everyone. Uncle Herman shook his head at my father’s fears. When Carter won and was preparing to become president, Daddy shared his concerns with Uncle Herman for the umpteenth time.

“What makes you think Carter would do that? Have you got any evidence?”

“We have a prophet in our church who warned us about this.”

I could see Herman’s shoulders drop in exasperation. He had no more faith in our prophet than he had in Jesus.

“I don’t understand how a law can keep anyone from worshiping God if that's what they want to do—after all, you don’t have to worship in a church or with other people.”

Daddy seemed a little annoyed. “Herman, you’re not a believer, so you don’t understand how much the Sabbath means to us.”

Herman shrugged his shoulders again, and that was the end of it.

Even though my father’s teachings seemed to fall on deaf ears. Uncle Herman sometimes sent my dad mail and addressed it to “The Reverend.” Daddy felt Herman respected him even though he disagreed with him.

When Aunt Beryl went to Turkey to do some healthcare for a humanitarian aid organization, Herman went with her. They were gone for a few weeks. When they returned, they brought us some Middle Eastern sweets and several postcards from Turkey. I kept mine in a photo album for years.

I would've been in seventh grade that year, but due to my parents ending my education at that point, I had lots of time to Bible-thump.

I’d also like to go on record for throwing teenage fits for no longer being able to attend school—at least until my protests met up with my father’s belt.

Our missionary zeal had complicated our lives because it was against the law for us kids not to be in school. If Uncle Herman came over during school hours, we kids had to hide in our bedrooms. If we were outside, we had to hide in the shed and not make a noise until Herman left—which might be hours.

By the time Thanksgiving came around, Momma was looking forward to having a crowd around her new table. Of course, only six could fit around the table, but the rest could sit on the sofa and other chairs. Daddy saw it as our spiritual duty to invite and engage as many as people in discussions about the end of the world. No one knew what the new year would bring.

A few days before Thanksgiving, Daddy invited the twins, then he invited Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl. Herman was walking around a red Volkswagen that Daddy was working on and kicked at the tires before looking inside.

“How much are you asking for this one?”

“More than you want to pay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you always try to jew me down.”

Uncle Herman glared at Daddy with his beady eyes and made a snorting sound.

“Some reverend you are—using a term like that. If you call yourself a Christian, you shouldn’t put any group of people down.”

Daddy excused it by saying that Uncle Herrman was so liberal-minded from all of his travels that he didn’t have the capacity to understand an innocent joke.

Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl did not come over for Thanksgiving dinner that year, but the twins came and brought several young navy men who were all homesick and grateful for a home-cooked meal—even if there was no turkey at our vegetarian house.

In the new year, life moved on in a surprisingly normal manner. The twins were deployed to another base. Uncle Herman continued to stop by from time to time. And Jimmy Carter was sworn in as president and never once threatened a Sunday law.

I grew up, got married, and traveled across the country for my husband’s education.

One day, we sat in horror to see that Timothy McVeigh had blown up the Oklahoma Federal Building. In the days that followed, I was shocked to hear the name of one of the twins in the news as a possible accomplice. He later ended up in prison for sending a bomb to another government building and injuring several people. It turns out the twins were members of Ku Klux Klan when we met them, and they later joined multiple white supremacist organizations. There was nothing Christian about these guys—they had infiltrated our church and led out in our youth group to learn as much as they could about our denomination. Sure they bought us a dining set, but that was only because we were white and they didn’t like sitting on the floor.

My father and the rest of My family were sick to discover the truth about these people we thought were friends. We many questions and feelings about it.

“But they seemed so nice.”

“Did the Bible mean nothing to them?”

“It just goes to show you never really know a person.”

Not long after I got married, I eagerly traveled to Whidbey Island to show my new husband my old stomping ground. We stopped at Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl’s to say hi. I’d come alone a couple of years before, and Uncle Herman had given me a ride in the orange VW bug, which was still purring along.

Beryl opened the door alone and explained that Herman had recently passed away.

I asked if she was okay, and she said yes—that her faith was stronger than ever.

We had toast and tea with her. I showed my husband the beach. She shared some apples from the little tree I used to play under. We fed the quails when they came out for some toast crumbs.

Before we left, Aunt Beryl described how her father was one of the first settlers on the island and had build this fisherman’s cabin low to the ground to protect it from the winds, but the upper story had great views.

“Would you like to see the views? Go ahead. You can go upstairs and take a look.”

I noticed the steps were steep and narrow.

”My ninety-year-old legs can’t climb anymore, so it might be dusty up there, but enjoy the view.” Her voice faded as we entered the attic.

While my husband went to the window to take in the view, I stood in shock to see menorahs scattered on tables across the room like so many altars. Some were bronze, others looked silver and gold.

I could hear Herman’s voice scolding my dad and my dad’s voice raising fears about persecution due to our Sabbath-keeping and telling Herman he didn’t understand.

Backing down the stairs, I looked into Beryl’s eyes. They were watering like mine.

“Why didn’t Herman tell us he was Jewish?”

“Because he lost family in the war and didn’t know who to trust.”

Reflecting on that Thanksgiving invitation, I now understand why Herman stayed away. Looking back, no one that year was who we imagined they were—not President Carter, not the Navy Twins, not Uncle Herman—and certainly not myself. It turns out I’m not a Bible thumper, after all. But in memory of Uncle Herman, I will continue to insist on the freedom that all people deserve, no matter who they are or what they believe.

© 2024 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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Memoirs are our modern fairy tales.... The autobiographer is faced with the daunting challenge of attempting to understand, forgive, and even love the witch... -Francine Prose, The New York Times Book Review

Once upon a time, Little Red lost their voice. As a survivor of childhood abuse, they were afraid to tell their story. They figured their abuser would accuse them of lying. They also felt shame and worried about what people might think if the truth got out.

Keeping secrets left Little Red without a voice, and even when they thought of speaking up, they didn’t know where to begin.

Then, one day, a fairy godmother blew in with the autumn leaves, carrying a basket of tools. She showed Little Red how to craft their story in a way that would captivate others. Taking the basket of tools, Little Red began to carve their story down to the essentials, and soon, the entire neighborhood came out to listen.

Little Red discovered they were not alone. Others had survived similar nightmares. People were grateful to hear Little Red’s story because it gave them hope and made them feel less alone.

Little Red is the symbol of all who were harmed in the name of love.

Do you have a story to tell? Do you dream of writing a book? Have you ever thought about writing your memoir like a fairy tale?

I’m not suggesting you make stuff up—that wouldn’t be a memoir. Memoirs are about true experiences, but looking through the lens of a fairytale might give you a new perspective.

You don’t need to make stuff up because your story is gold. If you tell it right, it will glow. Besides, the truth is often stranger than fiction. What I’m suggesting is that you borrow the elements from fairy tales to frame your memoir.

If you grew up like Jeanette Walls or Tara Westover in poverty, abuse, or with irresponsible parents, there’s a chance you took on shame due to your parents’ drinking, beating, enslaving, gaslighting, or even scapegoating you. This shame was never yours to wear. Like Cinderella’s old clothes, it was like a tattered hand-me-down that never fit you.

Framing your story through the fairytale lens can help you see that, like Cinderella, you weren’t responsible for all the bad things that happened to you. The fairytale lens removes the stigma and shame heaped on us from our abusers by reminding us that Cinderella and Belle didn’t hang their heads. In fairy tales, shame always points to the abuser where it belongs.

This first and vital lesson about framing your memoir through the fairytale lens might not be a technical writing skill, but survivors need to let go of their shame so they can write their stories. If you have been called the black sheep or you’ve been scapegoated by your family, you might know that you are telling the truth but still feel the shame heaped on you by the narcissist and their flying monkeys.

Casting off the shame is also crucial because family members might challenge your story. It’s essential to get the facts straight in your head before you write your book. This way, when threats come up, you can remember that you are the hero in your story and not the abuser. Your abuser would like to cripple you with their projected shame to prevent you from telling your story.

I have so much more to tell you, but for now, ask yourself these questions about the characters in your memoir.

“If my memoir were a fairytale, who would be the villain, and who would be the hero?

”Who would be my kindred spirit or fairy godmother?

Of course, the members of your family are more than these stereotypes, but as a family member, you’ve been blinded by your proximity to them. To see their true character, you might need to step back from a distance to look at their overall behavior. Remember, people have character arcs, so it’s possible that your abuser has changed since you were a child. It’s still okay to write about the past. They might have changed, but for now, in order to write your memoir, you’ll need to focus on where your story begins.

Step one in writing your memoir as a fairy tale is to look at your story and place the shame where it belongs—in the past, with Cinderella’s rags.

The Fairytale Lens © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough. All rights reserved.

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1 WALENSEE

August 22, 1843

Muhlehorn, Glarus, March 17, 1835

Amalia was thirteen when her parents took her to a wedding down by the Walensee. At the time, she had no dreams of marrying anyone. She felt awkward—too old to sit with the children yet too young to be considered an adult. Wandering among the wedding guests, looking for a place to belong, she noticed a tall teenager standing at the back of the crowd.

Her schoolmate Ursula noticed her staring and came over to whisper, “That’s Peter Britt, brother of the groom.”

The guests had just finished toasting the bride and groom when Peter and several other young men stepped forward to sing a song for the newlyweds. Amalia’s heart was thrilled to hear their harmony, but it was the young man in the middle who kept her attention. He turned his eyes away when she looked at him. His confidence, mixed with an awkward vulnerability, intrigued her.

She couldn’t imagine an older boy like him finding her attractive—she barely had breasts and wore her hair in two childlike braids hanging down to her waist. Her self-consciousness kept her from noticing that Peter was trying to grow a thin mustache in the hope of looking like a man.

The guests tapped spoons on the wine glasses for the newlyweds to kiss. Amalia looked at Peter to see how he would respond to his brother kissing the bride. She laughed when he wrinkled his nose like something in the room smelled rotten. Before she knew it, Peter was beside her, making jokes as if a wedding was not a solemn occasion.

The newly married couple danced in the golden light as the sun fell toward the horizon. The village folk flitted around them in laughter and song—until suddenly there was a skirmish, and somebody kidnapped the bride.

While the groom and his friends ran off to find her, an older man turned to Peter. “Aren’t you going to help your brother find his wife?”

Peter acted as if he hadn’t heard the man and turned to Amalia. “Would you like to go down to the lake?”

Amalia glanced toward her father before she agreed. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her walking toward the lake with a boy.

Across the lake, the nearly vertical cliffs of the mountains formed a formidable rock wall. The Walensee always wore turquoise in the sunshine—and this day was no exception. As one of the largest lakes in Switzerland, it carried the waters from three glacial rivers and deposited them into the Linth Canal. Boats from Obstalden traveled down the lake, into the Linth, and onto the larger world.

As the teenagers followed the short trail to the lake, the brisk March wind warned them that it was far too cold for swimming. Peter stopped to pick up a handful of rocks before they sat on the dock.

The teenagers skipped rocks across the water while each tried to think of something to say.

“I’ve never thought a wedding could be so much fun.” Peter’s voice was husky.

Amalia laughed. “This is the most interesting thing I’ve done all year.”

She wasn’t talking about the wedding. She meant talking to a boy beside the lake. She hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.

“Well, if this is the most interesting thing you’ll do all year, I feel sorry for you. I’m planning to travel through France and Italy this summer.”

Amalia bit her lip. “The thought of getting on a boat and traveling down the Linth sounds frightening.”

“You just need the right traveling companion.”

Peter slid closer to Amalia, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice her cheeks growing warm.

As the winter sun slid below the horizon, the sounds of singing and laughter echoed across the lake as the party continued above them. That night, there was no moon, and as the shadows gathered around them, they could barely make out the Alps, guarding their simple and ancient way of life. The sky was cloudless, and the stars soon popped into view, one by one.

Peter motioned toward a falling star. “Ptolemy said the stars are a sign that God is listening to our wishes. Would you like to make one?”

Amalia smiled. “Can we both make a wish? Or is there only one wish per star?”

Peter sighed, “I don’t know, but the one thing you can’t do is tell me what you wish for.”

Amalia tossed the last rock from her hand into the water. “I wouldn’t do that—or it might never come true.”

“Smart girl!” Peter handed her a rock from his hand. He placed it in her palm and gently wrapped her fingers around it as if experimenting to see how much she’d allow him to touch her. Then he stretched out on his back to gaze at the stars. Amalia followed his example. They lay on their backs, comparing childhood stories of snow forts and ruined Christmas surprises from peeking behind their parents’ backs.

“Have you ever been to Quinten? It’s just across the lake. They have more sun than we have here in Glarus. They can even grow grapes over there.”

“No, I’ve never left the Canton.”

A large boat passed with lanterns swinging from both sides, and the dock began to rock in its wake. Peter reached out to hold her hand as if to steady her.

Amalia looked from the water to the sky. “I heard that a fisherman could get lost between the stars on the water and the stars in the sky on such a dark, moonless night as this.”

Her voice trailed off into a whisper. “And possibly drown.”

“I doubt that would happen if they just stayed on the boat.”

His common sense made her laugh. Something about this boy filled her with a sense of calm.

As his face grew closer to hers, Amalia held her breath. Her face had never been so close to a boy before. She was shutting her eyes, hoping that he might kiss her, when the door to the house above them opened.

Her father’s gruff voice broke into her thoughts. “Amalia! Where are you? Let’s go!”

Peter dropped her hand and vanished, leaving Amalia alone on the dock. Puzzled by his abrupt departure, her eyes searched the shoreline and peered into the starry depths, but the water and the trees remained still.

For a moment, she wondered if she’d imagined this encounter. Her eyes searched for a sign that this wasn’t a dream. Hadn’t they breathed the same air and stared at the same stars? Hadn’t he touched her hand and leaned in close enough that she could smell the farm on him? Or had she just imagined it? Then her fingers felt the smooth rock in her hand, and she knew it was true.

Herr Grob impatiently called again. “Amalia, where are you? I hope you’re not alone with that boy.”

Amalia stood up and steadied herself against the pier before answering.

“Of course not. Coming, Vater!”

The Alpenhaus © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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Step Into The Alpenhaus

I saw your smile, I felt your warmth
I sensed your spirit before I ever felt your touch.
Even then I knew,
The scent of your hair,
The sound of your voice echoing off these hills,
Would never be too much.

Glarus, Switzerland, August 22, 1843

Amalia took a deep breath and glanced up at the Romanesque church tower pointing toward the azure sky. Built five hundred years earlier, it was the tallest building in the village. Inside, she could hear the organ playing her favorite hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God.” She nervously touched the wreath of wildflowers resting atop her exquisitely braided brown hair—just a quick check to make sure it was still in place. Then, holding a bouquet of yellow violets in one hand, she reached for her father’s arm with the other and took the step that would change her life forever.

It was the wedding she’d always dreamed about—flowers, food, music. Everything was perfect, except for one thing—she was marrying the wrong man.

This wasn’t her original plan, but she wanted more than anything to be good—and good daughters were expected to obey their fathers. Despite her lack of affection, Herr Grob had assured his daughter that she would learn to love her new husband.

Along with submitting to her father, she was getting something in return—a good provider who would ensure a stable home to raise her children.

It was a small wedding, and the guests didn’t begin to fill the austere church—but Amalia’s family and friends came to wish her well. Many of the guests—along with her parents—believed she was making a good match because the groom was a carpenter and shouldn’t lack for work.

In the Canton of Glarus, Switzerland, in 1843, the small farming community of Obstalden was struggling. Famines, sickness, and weather patterns had destroyed crops and disrupted life for over a decade. Despite hard times, the community came out to celebrate the union—bringing their best cheese, wine, and potato dishes.

While the minister rambled on about the duties of marriage, Amalia’s eyes wandered to the washed-out mural on the tower’s wall. Painted by the church fathers three centuries earlier, it was a fading reminder that human lives are short—while God alone is eternal.

She lowered her eyes in shame as she imagined a cloud of holy witnesses watching her make this solemn promise—to marry one man while she loved another.

In those moments before she said, “I do,” she pondered which was the greater sin—to disobey her father or marry a man she didn’t love.

Did she even have a choice?

As soon as the preacher declared them man and wife, the new couple stepped outside to light the bride’s wreath. The groom lifted the wildflowers from Amalia’s head and handed the symbol of her virginity to his bride. Swiss tradition predicted that the faster the wreath burned, the better the bride’s luck. They smiled at each other while the groom’s cousin Anton held up the torch.

Afterward, rumors spread that Anton had been distracted by an eagle flying overhead and took too long to light the torch, while others wondered if the torch had ever been adequately lit. Regardless, a strong wind came up from behind and snuffed out the flame.

Women gasped, men groaned, and gossips turned to each other, asking what it meant.

Unflustered, Amalia looked up at the sky. She figured it was a reminder that God was sovereign. If she were going to have good luck, it would depend on divine timing—and she must remain patient.

The shocked villagers remained silent, staring at the unlit wreath, until someone shouted, “Throw the bouquet!”

Ever compliant, Amalia turned her back to the crowd. She imagined that some young girl would catch it and put it under her pillow to dream about her future husband, as she had once done.

Tossing the flowers over her shoulder, she caught sight of turquoise Lake Walensee far below the village and winced as a pang of regret hit her stomach.

She ached not only for what was—but for what might have been.

The Alpenhaus © 2025 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.

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Step Into the Alpenhaus