We’re getting meta! In this contributor supplement, we ask writers to consider their process and share what might not have shown up in their accompanying essay on true. Here, writers respond to questions about the generation of their work and what they discovered while writing it.
“What Is Your Sauce Policy? On Literary Devices and Craft Choices in Quiet Memoir,”
appeared in the November 6, 2026 issue of true.
We know about the McNuggets, but from a writerly perspective, what inspired you to explore how literary devices can enhance quiet memoir?
My deep love for the genre is repeatedly colliding with the recent industry edict that “non-celebrity memoir doesn’t sell” and the notion that books from “the rest of us” are therefore in some way inferior. It’s a chicken or egg situation: Do quiet (non-celebrity) books actually not sell, or do publishing houses limit success by not putting promotional heft and funding behind them? Whatever that answer is, I want to see more quiet memoirs in the world (and read them), and I’d like to think that artistry and intentionality can make up for a lack of celebrity. This might be idealistic, but we need to have something to hold onto out here! Fortunately, small independent presses are celebrating this kind of work. Another valid approach is to suddenly become freakishly famous fifteen minutes before pitching our books, though I’ve been personally hard-pressed to identify a (legal) way to do that.
How would you describe your own sauce policy, or even your sauce recipe?
Policy: Saucy!
Recipe:
4 Cups Fun
17 Ounces Experimentation
45,000 Tablespoons Revision
Sauté with creativity and reduce until both flavorful and digestible. Research in a test kitchen then add more revision to taste.
Tell us a bit about how you (in your own work) know when you have the right amount and type of sauce for a piece you are writing.
For me, this is all about time. I like to play with different devices, step away, and check back in. Two weeks later, two months later, or maybe even two years later, I may decide that a craft choice is still working or discover it’s completely unsavory. At that point, I may need to do more work to salvage the sauce or I may have to consider an alternative method and start over. Any of us who have added salt to a simmering pan (ideally with a fancy wrist move) have participated in a form of revision. I suggest first trying to make a device work before throwing it in the garbage.
In this essay, you encourage writers not only to choose the devices that work best for them and their work, but also to change their style when they are moved to do so. How do you view the balance between trying new styles and meeting the expectations of readers who have enjoyed your previous work?
I am currently chewing on this, as I play with one project that has the same flavor profile as my recent memoir and hold another idea on the back burner that I’d probably have to serve from a whole other restaurant across town. Writing in a few different genres over 30 years, I’ve learned how challenging it is to keep going in this field while also simultaneously trying to achieve financial security, give care, participate in community, and maintain a modicum of mental health. In order to keep the writing dream alive alongside all of this, I’ve had to center fun in my writing practice, and I wholeheartedly advocate for this. We can approach even our darkest subject matter with an amalgam of creative curiosity, play, and bravery. If your current style is feeling energizing? Stick with it for now. If you’ve lost your taste for it? Move on.
