After reading Nancy Rekow’s oral history works, I wrote to her with questions, hoping for an article that allowed Writing It Real subscribers access to the thought process and background that fed her desire to write oral history. In response, Nancy wrote the following article and sent me this note: “Thanks, Sheila, for sending me such good questions! Because of you, I’ve been asking myself yet again those same old things. Who am I? What am I doing? Why am I doing it?”

You ask why record and publish oral histories. Well, I’ve always been fascinated by people and their stories. An oldest child, I grew up rather lonely and isolated. Early on, there was no one at all my age to play with. We lived on an old fruit farm, surrounded by orchards, fields, brooks, and woods, in a 1960 fieldstone house filled with books. My mother read to me all the time. I lived with stories and in stories — Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Pigs, The Secret Garden, Alice in Wonderland, Robin Hood, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Peter Pan. Books and nature and history defined my world.

My parents, though not farmers, had chosen to live in the country — even though my father commuted, by train and ferry, to work every day in Manhattan. So I grew up surrounded by country and farms — although my parents were “different” having moved from Ohio and Pennsylvania to Manhattan, where they met at a party in Greenwich Village, then married and moved to New Jersey countryside before I was born. We always kept chickens, so I always collected eggs, watched and listened to chickens and chicks, and decorated those eggs for Easter — though ironically I’ve never liked eating eggs.

Weekends, when my parents gathered their diverse friends around the dining table, I sat for hours listening to their stories, which always grew wilder after the wine. Since I was quiet, shy, and sat still, they talked pretty freely. They each had their own personal stories, their own voices to tell them in, their own style, their own kind of humor, their own etched memories. Each had their own ways of perceiving the world. So it seems I’ve always known that, always been curious, always hungered to soak up stories, to somehow store them up.

Early on, what helped prepare me for writing and publishing books when I’d scarcely dared dream such a thing? Looking back now, I can understand why I ended up, years later, getting so interested in an old English farmwoman named Minnie Rose Lovgreen, then putting together her Recipe for Raising Chickens, then going on to record and publish more oral histories and other books. But what was my pathway to all that?

 Because I loved books, words, and stories,I majored in English Lit. After college, I worked for Harcourt Brace, Publishers, in Manhattan. Then I taught reading and writing to grade-school kids. Then I lived and taught two years in England, soaking in the countryside and the history. Later I moved to an old farm on Bainbridge Island, WA, where we raised chickens and eventually four children. (For more details, see my Foreword to Minnie’s oral history, Far As I Can Remember, or visit our website).

Certainly those chapters in my early life felt very random at the time — like milkweed seeds floating around the fields with their white silks. Often, having grown up shy and isolated, I felt fearful, bewildered, disorganized, confused, inadequate. Who was I? What could I do, should I do? Where would it all end up? But, balancing, I often felt joyful, amazed, grateful to be alive. World War II was over but still painted a dark background. Life was serious, so life was all the more to be valued. In my family, there were strong strands of darkness and also strong stands of light. Underneath the surface lay alcoholism and mental illness. Our young brother died when he was six. But there was also joy and artistry and celebration — art, drama, music, literature and nature all around us.

Only now, in hindsight, do I realize more fully how in following those seemingly disconnected, random threads, by trying things out, I eventually discovered ways to use them all, to somehow weave them together, sometimes daring to take what felt like outrageous leaps, to forge ahead fanatically — first to record and publish Minnie Rose Lovgreen’s Recipe for Raising Chickens; then to learn from the process; and then to continue on. I’m lucky to have ventured into this work I love, this work that can save lives!

What prompted me to create the book about raising chickens?What a good question! Because that experience really did change my life. By that time, 1975, I’d known Minnie Rose Lovgreen 11 years. She was 86 years old. I’d traveled far from my first impressions of a gossipy old English-accented, aproned farmwoman who dyed her hair red and seemingly never stopped talking — although that was all true.

Gradually, I’d realized how remarkable Minnie Rose Lovgreen was — how much she knew, how incredibly hard she’d worked, how well her advice worked, how much she remembered, how she’d transformed her life, and what amazing stories she told. So over the years, I’d grown to be her friend, to respect and admire her, to recognize how much she’d helped and taught me — not just about raising chickens, but about raising children, calling cows, pruning, gardening, cooking, herbs, medical care — and about life! I learned how, long before Women’s Lib., Minnie Rose had invented ways to escape seemingly hopeless situations, thereby changing the course of her life.

Minnie Rose Lovgreen had only about six months of formal schooling. But from her mother, who died when Minnie was four, she’d learned to love songs and stories. All her life, Minnie remembered and told about riding with her father to the cemetery to plant snowdrops on her mother’s grave. And every year, all the rest of her life, at the very beginning of spring, soon as the snow was off the ground, she would walk out and begin to search for those delicate first white snowdrops that emerged from the earth.

I listened to Minnie’s amazing stories — how she left home at age 11 and never went back; how she taught herself to read and write and cook and sew; how she just missed sailing on the Titanic; how she escaped — with her year-and-a-half-old son — from an abusive husband; how later she and her second husband worked for years, starting from scratch, to build a prizewinning dairy farm. Now and then Minnie would mention that she’d always wanted to write a book about raising chickens. But I knew she was always far too busy to sit down and actually do it.

In the winter of 1974, Minnie Rose was diagnosed with cancer and hospitalized for tests. I ferried my tape recorder across Puget Sound, arrived in her hospital room in Seattle, and said to her, in that white bed, “Okay, Minnie Rose. Now we’re going to start your book.” I turned on the tape-recorder and Minnie, gradually gathering strength, started spouting all her chicken-raising wisdom. Nights, I’d transcribe the tapes, then next day read her the text and she’d add more. Every night, in that hospital bed, she planned what to say the next day. This was the chicken lore she’d gathered and shared with others most of her life, so the words flowed freely. She knew we were starting her book. It gave her something to think about, something to live for. When Minnie came back home, we went on tape-recording her chicken advice. Then, since we both enjoyed the process, I suggested we just roll on and record her whole life story. So we did.

I was absolutely determined to publish Minnie’s book about raising chickens. I had a busy life, with four young children, but we all knew Minnie hadn’t much longer to live. So I became a kind of fanatic. I transcribed and edited the text, keeping most of her homespun voice intact, then reorganized somewhat, cut repetitions, and divided the text into 6 titled sections. Minnie’s voice was so clear and direct and flavorful that it didn’t require much editing. I kept all her lively, homespun sayings. I located a friendly, local, retired printer who agreed to print the book at his home.

I consulted a very experienced graphic designer friend. To my dismay, he set the story aside without reading a single word! He said, “Nancy, I don’t care if your story is any good or not. If you make your book look eye-catching and appropriate to the subject, then it will appeal to people and it will sell. Make it a different size,” he said, “and a different color.” So I decided to make the book square and to have it printed in brown ink on tan paper so it would look earthy, reflecting the subject matter. That designer’s lesson has stayed with me ever since: be sure your cover (and book design) look original, have a visual impact, and reflect the content of your book. In fact, over the years, I’ve learned a tremendous amount from various graphic designers.

Then something exciting happened. One day a chicken-raising neighbor friend of Minnie’s and mine — Elizabeth Hutchison Zwick — told me she’d like to try illustrating the book. She was educated, intelligent, and a strong, capable farmwoman, but I’d never known she was an artist. That day, sitting in her old farmhouse, she showed me her drawings, and right away I said, “Yes. Please illustrate the book.” From then on, with Elizabeth’s beautiful, natural pen and ink drawings, the book became a work of art.

Elizabeth and I worked together all the way. Basically she designed the book, with my advice. Basically I edited the text, with her advice. And somewhere along the line, I decided to hand-letter the text, as a way of honoring Minnie’s homespun words and Elizabeth’s charming illustrations. I’d never studied calligraphy, but had taught printing to first and second graders. I studied the typefaces with serifs in some books, and began gingerly printing Minnie’s words. Though rather primitive, it turned out that my hand-lettered text went very well with Elizabeth’s graceful pen and ink drawings of chickens, chicks, apple trees, coops, and roses.

Typically, Minnie Rose herself had thought up the title she wanted; Recipe for Raising Chickens. All I did was to add in her name. “Minnie Rose Lovgreen” I said. “Such a special name. We have to put it into the title.” So we did. That made it a long, but unique title. And folks would remember her name.

Then came the subtitle. As Minnie’d spouted advice on getting hens to lay more, she’d said, “The main thing is to keep them happy.” “Okay, Minnie,” I said. “That’s your subtitle.” And so it was: Minnie Rose Lovgreen’s Recipe for Raising Chickens: The Main Thing is to Keep them Happy. Sound advice for any life situation — not just for raising chickens.

That early spring we worked like crazy. And we were rather crazy. Passionate. Determined. Distracted. Exhausted. But we knew Minnie Rose, who’d helped us both so much, was dying. So along with mothering, Elizabeth and I worked long late nights on the book. (Years later, reading psychologist/artist Rollo May’s wonderful book, The Courage to Create, I better understood how such dedication, passion, persistence, and (yes) courage, are essential in any creative process.)

That April, that same spring of 1975, we published 1,000 copies of Minnie Rose’s Recipe for Raising Chickens, a 32-page book that a group of us hand-folded and stapled. Minnie (though undergoing chemotherapy), signed 500 books, had an autograph party, was written up in newspapers, and appeared on Seattle’s King TV. With help from friends and local folks, we sold those first 1,000 copies in a month! Then Pacific Search of Seattle agreed to re-publish the book. They printed 20,000 copies, which sold nationwide till 1988, when the book went out of print for over 20 years. Finally, in spring, 2009, Everett Thompson and I, here at NW Trillium Press, reprinted the book, which has now sold nearly 25,000 copies!

Minnie Rose died in July that same year, 1975. But meanwhile, she had the joy of knowing her book was being read, used, shared, and loved by thousands of people across the country.

Here’s a poem I wrote about Minnie Rose after her death — actually three short poems combined:

MINNIE ROSE LOVGREEN, 1887-1975

She skipped lunch to work
the garden. Spring had been
late. Poppies had self-seeded through
lettuce. She tied up the pole beans
with saved twine, wilted
weeds in piles to
be dug in.

Fingers crusted, she worked
till the sun was butter churning,
roses funneled wild from all gardens known,
and she crumpled like a burlap sack.
Sunstroke, she thought. But sun
had nothing to do with the
flowering in her blood.

After the funeral
we are all invited
to tea at her house.
It is a fine day.
The sky is
blue. Not
a cloud.

On our laps the
teacups pose. Geraniums
scream from the flowerpots.
Outside, in late sun, chickens
take dust baths. Already
the gravensteins hang
in tight green knots.

Old woman, I brought
you roses and baby’s breath
in a mason jar one week before you
died. Past the oxygen tubes,
you tried to tell me again
they had been your
bridal bouquet.

After Minnie Rose’s death, for 35 years, the life story I’d recorded sat in my file cabinet (and in the back of my head). Last June, 2010, we finally published it here at NW Trillium Press: Far As I Can Remember: An Immigrant Woman’s Story, 1888-1975. A perfect-bound book of 176 pages, with photographs, it tells Minnie’s life story, recorded in her own words. Response has been positive, especially from folks who love the chicken book.

For Elizabeth and for me, publishing Minnie Rose’s chicken book changed our lives. Elizabeth went on to earn a further degree in graphic design, then continued with numerous other projects as a graphic designer, illustrator, and publishing consultant. I went on to write, teach writing and poetry to all ages, edit manuscripts, and publish/help publish various other books. Both together and independently, Elizabeth and I have now worked on and published numerous other books of poetry, stories, and oral history for individuals and for organizations. (Currently you can see Elizabeth’s beautiful, very authentic, watercolor illustrations in the wonderful children’s book, Shadowchaser of the Siskiyous on her website.

Elizabeth and I both know all this would never have happened without Minnie Rose Lovgreen. She was the catalyst. Through publishing her two books, we have indeed saved her life. But, in a very real sense, she has also saved ours!

What am I most proud of concerning the chicken book? Of course I’m amazed and proud that Minnie Rose Lovgreen’s words about raising chickens have now reached countless folks who continue to spread news of her books by word of mouth. Sometimes they write or phone to tell us how well the advice works, how they love Minnie’s unique voice,. and often how they feel she’s sitting right there talking with them, drinking tea. Often they order more copies for friends, relatives, and other chicken-raisers. Often, after reading the chicken book, they also order Minnie’s life story.

Do I wish I’d done anything differently? Mostly, amazingly, I’m just grateful it’s all turned out so well. I’m grateful to have learned so much — first by publishing Recipe for Raising Chickens, then by working further with oral histories and other books, getting to know the authors and storytellers, then publishing or helping publish their stories. How lucky I am to be doing this work I love!

What do I advise others? For anyone recording/editing/publishing oral history, I advise them to listen, to be open and curious, to tune in to the storyteller and the story, to gradually absorb the spirit of it — then to make sure the book truly imparts that spirit. I advise them always to ask questions. When Elizabeth and I work together on books, she always interrogates me (and the author) about the manuscript’s focus, about its spirit. We rack our brains over how best to convey that spirit in the visual design. We spend hours in bookstores, studying books — their covers, their layouts — then selecting the few that appeal to us and to the author for that project. Why do they appeal to us? What qualities make that happen? A time-consuming task. But very helpful.

Some Advice On Oral Histories
Whenever someone starts telling a story, I listen. (Nosy, like most writers.) I ask questions — whether in the grocery store by the cabbages or flying on a plane. Often I eavesdrop, though try not to be blatant about it. And over the years, folks have come along who want to tell their story, to preserve it, but may not feel like writing it down. (After all, as we know, that’s hard work.) Sometimes I know them, sometimes not. Somehow they hear I’ve helped others with oral histories. If it turns out they want to consider creating an oral history, then we discuss how that might work.

How does an oral history project begin? First I find out what kind of story the person has to tell. I listen. Then I ask questions. I show them I’m interested, which I am. I tell them their story is unique — which it always is — that no one else could possibly tell their particular story. Like snowflakes, we’re all unique. Nobody else has experienced our life. Nobody else knows what we know.

We discuss how we might work together; what kinds of help I could offer if they want; how they might choose to present or to publish their story. Would it be just for friends and family, or for a wider audience? (Sometimes, for personal reasons, they may elect to change the characters’ names, and sometimes even their own, though of course there is authenticity in the real names.)

Sometimes they’re already well informed about printing options, but sometimes not. Nowadays, with computers, Xerox machines, and a wealth of printing/binding methods, authors have many options. Some are inexpensive, ranging from simple Xeroxed copies stapled together, to printed, perfect-bound books. And they can also include photos, family letters, and documents. I can show them samples of oral history books and others I have published. And obviously, anyone with good computer skills can work with formatting the book.

If they do think of narrating and publishing their story in some form, I say I’ll be glad to help if they want — to record the story, to help edit and revise, and/or to help with printing/publishing. I say how important I think it is to tell their own story, to retain their own words, their own rhythms, their own voice, as much as possible — because that’s what brings their story to vivid life and makes it personal, that’s what pulls the readers in. Their story will feel authentic if told in their own natural voice.

Sometimes people think a story they tell aloud will seem too ordinary or boring, that it won’t interest readers much at all compared to a story they’d sit and write. I say that of course anyone who wants to write his or her story is certainly welcome to — and many do a fine job. But I also point out that telling stories aloud and taping them has some real advantages. First, it’s much faster and simpler. Realistically, many folks will never find the time and/or confidence to actually sit down and crank out their own stories, whereas they can tell them aloud to a friendly listener much faster — often in just a few sessions. And that can be fun! (Although I do also edit and help with people’s written manuscripts.)

The power of our spoken voice: In 1981, writer/teacher Peter Elbow published a book I always remember called Writing With Power. In it, he points out that often our spoken voice — what we say aloud to someone — contains more directness, more power, than the words we sit down and write — because when we talk we’re under pressure, so have learned to put things strongly. In many ways I think that is true — although of course we can learn to achieve that same kind of power, and to be much more creative, when we write. Still, if someone considers dictating an oral history, I talk about the power we find in spoken narrative.

I mention that telling one’s own story, painting in the details, all the sorrows and joys, is always therapeutic, now matter how they decide to share (or not to share) it. The longer we live,
the more we live through, the more we learn. Oral histories give us the chance to share all that rich experience.

I suggest they take their time and think it over. If they do want some kind of help from me, we can arrange that on a trial basis. We can try a recording session, following which I transcribe and print out some of the text. I can then write some suggestions, both general and specific, for them to consider. Then they can arrange for my further help — or not. Always it needs to be on a trial basis.

For most of my life, I’ve helped people of all ages tell and write their stories — first my three younger siblings, then friends and fellow students, then my own students, then my own children, then other friends, then people who’ve somehow heard of my services. For many years, I did this for free. Eventually I started charging. Now I charge reasonable rates and feel fortunate to be doing this work I love.

Over the years I’ve learned not just that everyone has a story, but that most people, no matter what their background or education, can do a really good job of telling their story aloud.

If the storyteller does decide to try working together, I try to make sure they feel comfortable. If they live nearby I go to their house, where we can sit in comfortable chairs in a favorite room and drink tea — although if they’re further away, they can certainly tell me their stories by phone.

At first the storyteller may feel self-conscious with a tape recorder.So I put it nearby but out of their sight. Then, once their stories get rolling, they tend to forget they’re being recorded. They just talk. I listen completely — with mindfulness as the Buddhists say. They may ask where to begin, how to begin. I say begin wherever you like; that can always be changed later. If they want to be chronological, that’s fine, but I encourage them to start wherever they want, to take off on tangents, to backtrack, even to take off on wild crazy side trips, and go wherever they lead — to run with what the Buddhists call the “wild horses of the mind.” That way their words can flow naturally, like the tides, and of course can always be edited later. But sometimes it turns out that these side trips, these off-the-cuff remarks, will illuminate and jazz up the story — will shoot like lightning straight from the heart.

So the storyteller begins to talk. I listen completely. I’m right there with them. I’m informal. I may nod or laugh or exclaim or empathize, but mostly I just let their story flow. Sometimes I ask questions to enrich or clarify — to furnish the what, where, when, why, how. Sometimes I ask for specific details — for people’s names and mannerisms; for names of trees, streets, flowers, towns, rivers — and for images (sense impressions) — what did they see, hear, smell, taste, touch? I explain that all these tricks, these skills that all good writers know — will always wake up their story, making their tapestry more vivid. Like waving a magic wand, using these simple skills will bring the story to life for the reader — which is what we all crave when we read a good story or book. Sometimes, a storyteller who lives nearby will join my writing workshops for a while to learn more and practice their writing skills.

Then there‘s the question of how to print and distribute a narrator‘s story. Nowadays, a storyteller has many choices, which we can discuss. They may choose simply to Xerox copies of the edited manuscript, either specially formatted or not, then put them together — in a folder, or stapled, or sewn together, or with a comb binding or some other simple technique. Printers and paper products stores can offer lots of helpful advice. Even simple, low-cost booklets or books can be beautiful.

Or they can choose to have the book done at the printer’s, maybe stapled together (saddle stitched) for a shorter book, or perfect-bound (glued like a paperback) for a longer book. At the printer’s they can select the weight and color of text paper and cover. They can also decide (maybe with skilled help) on the book’s design, its format — not just cover design and color, but also paper color and weight — and then smaller matters like typeface, type size, margins, spacing, headings, and titles. All these seemingly small choices make a huge difference in the book’s final “look” — whether it ends up being a classy, eye-catching book that stands out, or something more ordinary looking.

Basically the storyteller has many choices. Are they writing the book for just a few friends and family members, or for those folks and a local market, or for a wider readership? Or to reach more readers they may want to consider “publishing” the book. They could do so through a “vanity press” which is reasonably straightforward — but that’s expensive and offers little control over format and other design features — and still means they’d have to do most of the marketing, publicity, sales, mailing, and bookkeeping themselves. (Although publishing a book through a vanity press can be a good simple solution for some authors.)

For more control over the book’s design and production, they can choose to self-publish the book, which means they’ll still pay for everything (except what they do themselves), but have far more control over the end product. That way they have many choices. They can decide which parts of the publishing process to do themselves and which parts they’ll hire qualified people to do. Obviously, all this involves considerable time and thought and work. And after the book is printed, comes the whole question of marketing and selling it. How wide is the book’s appeal? Do they want to reach more readers? How much time and money and energy do they have? How important is this project to them? (These are all questions I can discuss with the narrator, and help with the process if they want, but of course the decisions must be theirs.)

There are now many helpful books on all aspects of self-publishing which open up endless methods for all steps of the process. Over the years I have read, studied, underlined, and bookmarked many of these books. Nowadays, after one writes a book, printing and marketing choices abound. And they’re changing all the time. Two authors I’ve found especially helpful are Steve Weber who wrote Plug Your Book, and Dan Poynter, who’s written and published many books on the subject. Both also have websites. There’s actually loads of information, so it’s always a matter of figuring out what will work best for a particular book.

Sometimes if a self-published book sells well, like Recipe for Raising Chickens, a regular publisher may then offer to take it on. And if the book has a wide market, this can sometimes be a good option. (Far less work, but far less profit per book. Sometimes, however, turning the book over to a regular publisher makes good sense. And the author does get royalties.)

I’ve been focused here on self-publishing. That’s because, usually, finding a regular publisher to publish an oral history will be extremely difficult or even impossible — unless the story relates to a specific historical time or area (in which case a local historical society might consider publishing it) — or unless it addresses in new ways a person or subject in which there is widespread interest — or unless the book is a how-to book that offers original, direct advice on doing something many folks want to know about.

Speaking of how-to books, that was the case with Minnie’s chicken book. I’d been told early on by someone connected with publishing that some of the best-selling books were how-to books, because they have a built-in market, and because people always search for advice on how to do things. Sure enough, Minnie’s book on how to raise chickens has sold widely for many years to folks who raise or want to raise chickens. Not only does her advice really work, but also the book is unique, personal, informal, and charming. But I never dreamed of such widespread sales when we first published it. And here at NW Trillium Press, when we decided two years ago to re-publish the book after 20-plus years out of print, we didn’t fully realize how strong and widespread the interest in raising chickens had become. That was our good fortune.

Marketing a book is tricky, time-consuming, and takes confidence, although how-to books on self-publishing offer more advice on marketing than anyone can possibly put into action. Nowadays, bookstores are usually not the primary market. There are many other marketing options including Amazon, websites, blogs, newsletters, book distributors, publishers’ organizations, book fairs, and multiple kinds of social networking. All of course take research and work.

Our most successful marketing step for the chicken book, though we’d hesitated to do it, was to hire a publicist (recommended by a publisher friend). He rewrote our press release (pitching it just right); emailed out about 5,000, and, amazingly, got back about 200 responses from reporters and reviewers, requesting copies of the book. Many of those 200 responders then wrote articles, posts, or reviews about the book for their newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs, and newsletters. Also a fair number phoned and interviewed me for articles or live radio programs about Minnie Rose, her life, and her books. All this because we had a unique, reasonably priced, how-to book on a hot topic with a real story behind it!

Our publicist’s name is Paul Krupin. He lives in Kennewick, WA. You can check out his website, email him at Paul@DirectContactPR.com or phone 1-800-457-8746. Of course, his services are not free. But for us they’ve been really worth it. Before hiring a publicist, consider whether your book will appeal to a wide enough market (or perhaps to a certain specialized market). As there are many publicists and firms, always get recommendations from sources you trust.

For anyone who decides to self-publish, I have two main suggestions. The first is be brave and persistent. If you believe in your book, then persevere, and be prepared for some tough challenges. The second is search all avenues for information. Keep asking questions. Listen carefully to all answers. Ask your local (and other) bookstores, printers, and paper supply stores for information you need. Ask various designers. Ask computer people — or just friends who are good with computers. Ask anyone with an interest in your particular topic. Ask other writers. Ask publishers. Ask English teachers. Ask librarians. Ask people who love books. Ask more librarians. Go to book fairs. In short, ask and keep asking. Over the years, I’ve found that people who love books care deeply about them and will often offer great advice (although of course you’ll need to ask at a good time).

My advice here about self-publishing applies not just to publishing oral histories, but to publishing any book on any topic, whatever your thoughts, dreams, or projects.

What are my concerns as I work with someone’s oral history? Nowadays, when I help someone speak/dictate their narrative into a recorder, I start to become familiar with it. Then, transcribing it on the computer, I become more familiar. So it’s quite different from standard editing when one comes to the manuscript cold. With recorded oral history, I’m already warmed up. I’ve heard the story. I’ve understood it. In a sense I’ve entered into it. I know the storyteller’s language and attitudes and rhythms. My task involves keeping the flavor, the essence of the narrator’s voice, the narrator’s story.

I try to keep the storyteller’s words intact — to keep their rhythms, their feelings, their opinions, their spirit and their voice — all vital to their story. Often, as with Minnie Rose’s story, I don’t change many words at all. But sometimes I need to change or tighten wording, though usually not too much. And I do consider the focus. I eliminate repetitions. I rearrange/organize the order of sentences, sections and pieces. Using the narrator’s words, I try to create paragraphs with pungent starts and endings. Often I create chapters or sections. As with any book or story, I search for a strong, original opening, and an equally strong ending (though often these get figured out late in the process.) The storyteller and I search for an original title that represents the story’s essence, the storyteller’s spirit, and attracts readers. Sometimes that comes last of all.

As for detailed editing of syntax, sentence structure and the like, I work to keep the storyteller’s style. I don’t usually change their words or word order too much, but do of course divide their words into sentences and punctuate them. Often it’s easy to hear the pauses that become periods. Some narrators seem to speak in shorter, clearly defined sentences, with obvious pauses for thought. Their stories feel to me as if they toss a stone into a pond, watch the ripples slowly spread, then follow the stone as it sinks to the bottom where they discover further truths. Other narrators’ words roll on and on like streams and rivers with rapids and currents and eddies that tumble as they rush to the sea, sometimes slowing for islands and swamps, then finding their course as they flow to the ocean.

So it’s my job to absorb and use the narrator’s rhythms — his or her ways of thinking and talking. I try to arrange the narrator’s words, so they will best deliver the story. There may be many short, simple sentences. Maybe sentence fragments. There may be complex sentences many lines long with complex rhythms, with multiple subjects and verbs, that pile up phrases and clauses, that distract with tributaries, that express complicated, intricate relationships. Or indeed there may be both kinds of sentences in various places. Either style can work well. My job is to try and organize those spoken words so they best convey the narrator’s story to the reader.

And always, of course, I ask the narrator to read through and comment on the manuscript as I work with it. Often we begin by having me work first on an early chapter or chapters so the narrator can decide whether or not to continue.

Sometimes, now, I sit and listen to those 1975 tapes of Minnie Rose Lovgreen (age 86) dictating to me her chicken advice and then her life story. I hear her rolling along in that lively, unstoppable, lifelong-storyteller voice. And sometimes on the tapes, I hear my own voice asking her questions, asking for more details. Were the flowers in front of the house red oriental poppies or white baby’s breath? Were the cattle in the pasture black and white Holsteins or brown Guernseys? Was the roof they put on the cottage thatched or tile?

And I hear her provide those details, filling things in, making the story much more evocative, like a rich tapestry. And the thing was, I always knew she could remember, could provide more specific details when I asked. (Although part of her gift as a storyteller was always to load the story with colorful details, like an ever-bearing fruit tree.) All her life she’d noticed and stored up details, like saving apples for applesauce. All her life she’d been a curious observer, a kind of inventor, who handed out advice and told stories. So, when tape-recording, she just rushed along like a creek in spring, with her own stories, observations, original language, and homespun sayings, till our recording time was up.

Most people are not that comfortable telling a story when they’re being recorded. So the thing is to create an easy atmosphere — just to get them talking (like starting in to ride a bike) about what they remember, what they care about, what they know, what they remember most vividly — as in the timeless advice for writers to “write what you know.” Then there’s a sense that both narrator and listener (and later, the reader) truly enter the story. We live in the story, so the story comes to life and surrounds us and moves us — like a wild field of fireweed, or a dark cave crowded with dark shapes — just the feeling we get when reading a good book. Then, when you ask questions, the storyteller will tend to give spontaneous, spirited answers — often humorous, often biting, sometimes heartbreaking — truthful, pithy answers. And then you’re cooking! Not so much cooking with gas as with life. And, indeed, you are saving a life!

My advice here about self-publishing applies not just to publishing oral histories, but to publishing any book on any topic, whatever your thoughts, dreams, or projects.

What are my concerns as I work with someone’s oral history? Nowadays, when I help someone speak/dictate their narrative into a recorder, I start to become familiar with it. Then, transcribing it on the computer, I become more familiar. So it’s quite different from standard editing when one comes to the manuscript cold. With recorded oral history, I’m already warmed up. I’ve heard the story. I’ve understood it. In a sense I’ve entered into it. I know the storyteller’s language and attitudes and rhythms. My task involves keeping the flavor, the essence of the narrator’s voice, the narrator’s story.

I try to keep the storyteller’s words intact — to keep their rhythms, their feelings, their opinions, their spirit and their voice — all vital to their story. Often, as with Minnie Rose’s story, I don’t change many words at all. But sometimes I need to change or tighten wording, though usually not too much. And I do consider the focus. I eliminate repetitions. I rearrange/organize the order of sentences, sections and pieces. Using the narrator’s words, I try to create paragraphs with pungent starts and endings. Often I create chapters or sections. As with any book or story, I search for a strong, original opening, and an equally strong ending (though often these get figured out late in the process.) The storyteller and I search for an original title that represents the story’s essence, the storyteller’s spirit, and attracts readers. Sometimes that comes last of all.

As for detailed editing of syntax, sentence structure and the like, I work to keep the storyteller’s style. I don’t usually change their words or word order too much, but do of course divide their words into sentences and punctuate them. Often it’s easy to hear the pauses that become periods. Some narrators seem to speak in shorter, clearly defined sentences, with obvious pauses for thought. Their stories feel to me as if they toss a stone into a pond, watch the ripples slowly spread, then follow the stone as it sinks to the bottom where they discover further truths. Other narrators’ words roll on and on like streams and rivers with rapids and currents and eddies that tumble as they rush to the sea, sometimes slowing for islands and swamps, then finding their course as they flow to the ocean.

So it’s my job to absorb and use the narrator’s rhythms — his or her ways of thinking and talking. I try to arrange the narrator’s words, so they will best deliver the story. There may be many short, simple sentences. Maybe sentence fragments. There may be complex sentences many lines long with complex rhythms, with multiple subjects and verbs, that pile up phrases and clauses, that distract with tributaries, that express complicated, intricate relationships. Or indeed there may be both kinds of sentences in various places. Either style can work well. My job is to try and organize those spoken words so they best convey the narrator’s story to the reader.

And always, of course, I ask the narrator to read through and comment on the manuscript as I work with it. Often we begin by having me work first on an early chapter or chapters so the narrator can decide whether or not to continue.

Sometimes, now, I sit and listen to those 1975 tapes of Minnie Rose Lovgreen (age 86) dictating to me her chicken advice and then her life story. I hear her rolling along in that lively, unstoppable, lifelong-storyteller voice. And sometimes on the tapes, I hear my own voice asking her questions, asking for more details. Were the flowers in front of the house red oriental poppies or white baby’s breath? Were the cattle in the pasture black and white Holsteins or brown Guernseys? Was the roof they put on the cottage thatched or tile?

And I hear her provide those details, filling things in, making the story much more evocative, like a rich tapestry. And the thing was, I always knew she could remember, could provide more specific details when I asked. (Although part of her gift as a storyteller was always to load the story with colorful details, like an ever-bearing fruit tree.) All her life she’d noticed and stored up details, like saving apples for applesauce. All her life she’d been a curious observer, a kind of inventor, who handed out advice and told stories. So, when tape-recording, she just rushed along like a creek in spring, with her own stories, observations, original language, and homespun sayings, till our recording time was up.

Most people are not that comfortable telling a story when they’re being recorded. So the thing is to create an easy atmosphere — just to get them talking (like starting in to ride a bike) about what they remember, what they care about, what they know, what they remember most vividly — as in the timeless advice for writers to “write what you know.” Then there’s a sense that both narrator and listener (and later, the reader) truly enter the story. We live in the story, so the story comes to life and surrounds us and moves us — like a wild field of fireweed, or a dark cave crowded with dark shapes — just the feeling we get when reading a good book. Then, when you ask questions, the storyteller will tend to give spontaneous, spirited answers — often humorous, often biting, sometimes heartbreaking — truthful, pithy answers. And then you’re cooking! Not so much cooking with gas as with life. And, indeed, you are saving a life!