Memoir is a genre (of writing, of art, of anything) dating back to, well, probably forever, but at least the fourth century, CE, from which time we have St. Augustine’s Confessions (on my summer reading list). Which is to say the literary form has been written and written again for, say, 1,600+ years. That’s a long time. And I’d like to see something new happen.

Throughout the years, authors have experimented with the form of memoir and autobiography presenting us with gems ranging from scientific prose; to pretty but perhaps obscure; to minimalist; to mixed media poetry/prose/screenplay/lists; to personal meditations on Dungeons & Dragons; to graphic memoirs. Enter now.

Now is an interesting time for writing because, it seems, the world is open to something new. Something different. Something that challenges our notions of what writing is and what it might be. There are even a few literary journals pushing this idea, that writing can present itself in ways unknown. Memoir (and) is one such journal, requesting calls for submissions for poetry, prose, photography and graphic essays, all under the banner of memoir. I imagine they’re interested in other forms too; they just don’t have names for them yet.

Their current issue was recently released and I just got my copy last week. And one of my essays is in it! The editors called a few months ago to discuss formatting and logistics, so I knew it was coming. But still. This is the first essay from my MFA manuscript to be published so I’m extra excited. That they print in two color: triple excitement.

Let’s talk about form (art word for the way a thing looks). There are a few or perhaps several graphic memoirs in existence and have been since the 1960s (does anyone know about earlier texts?). They’ve evolved in format over time, with panels developing to denote time/space and word bubbles. For my work, though, I want to authentically represent the fallacy of memory and of documentation. A book is not simply arrived at in perfect form, in a neatly edited package. There are spills of ink, deletions, frustrations, familial tensions and general wanderings throughout the process; all of which I want to include in the essays. (Not everything, I’m told politely.) The trick, I suppose, is to not put the reader to sleep.

I read the journal, cover to cover, and am excited for the genre of memoir, for form-pushing, for the now. So check out what the lovely folks over at Memoir (and) are doing. You can read the entire journal online or buy a printed copy ($12). Or if you want an artist book version, go here.