Behind the Title

Deciding title context placement while unveiling layers of life

Yup. That’s me. A baby watering a baby dogwood tree on the first post of my baby substack.

A memoir title is the reader’s first impression and the encapsulation of a time in your life that is to become your memoir. It should capture the essence, the unique voice, and the thematic core of the memoir. A well-crafted title not only intrigues potential readers but also sets the stage for the emotional and narrative experience that follows.

If the title of your memoir or essay isn’t as straightforward or all-encompassing as Sociopath, or Invisible Child: Poverty, Survival & Hope in an American City, you will need a scene that fleshes out the meaning for the reader. Contextual placement brings your audience closer, fills them in, a payoff for having stuck with your story for a period of time.

The Sound of Gravel by Ruth Wariner is the sound a handful of dirt dropping on the top of a casket during a life-altering funeral roughly 2/3 of the way into the book.

or consider

Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, reveals the context early. We learn in the first few pages of the book that the author breaks down every time she enters an H Mart because she is reminded of the loss of her mother.

Neither is right or wrong, but both were done with purpose, and ultimately the context behind a memoir’s title should be revealed in a way that feels natural and integral to the narrative.

By the time I got to the title context of The Sound of Gravel, which was also a significant traumatic event in the story, there was something gratifying in the wait, in the intrigue and working for the inside scoop. My curiosity grew as to what significance the sound of gravel had to her experience. The climactic revelation works because of the pivotal moment she chose to lay it out.

And in Crying in H Mart, the upfront context placement evoked initial emotion and provided a cultural lens to view the rest of the book through. I knew from the first few pages that every time the narrator walked through the aisles of her Asian market, she remembered the foods her mother made her, and was overcome with the grief of losing her mother to cancer. The entirety of the book comes back to the cooking: ingredients and recipes and how they relate to her relationship with her mother, and the eventual loss.

I’ve heard editors suggesting the context should come within the first fifty pages, and while I like that advice, I’m not wholly locked into it, but I’ve been giving it thought.

When starting this here, fancy new substack, prior to knowing what my focus would be, I knew I wanted to name it Beneath the Dogwood Tree. My late mother loved the white variety and she planted them every where she moved, but never stuck around in one spot long enough to see them grow to maturity: From a rowhome in Old Dundalk, pictured above, me as a baby watering a baby dogwood, both of us itching to grow, to a single family home on the other side of town. Those are the two I’ve seen, but my aunt mentioned she perhaps also planted them in California and Connecticut and North Carolina, maybe even Florida. I like to think about her creating homes among chaos, as many times as it took. I like to think about her tending to a frail sapling until it could stand on its own. How she shared beauty when and where she could.

Me and my sisters planted the blossoming trees in our yards as a dedication to her. The trees grow slow and her case moves slower. It was an easy decision to name this little space after a memory that brings me much joy. The dogwood tree is a place of reflection and solace, a silent witness to countless stories and personal growth. It’s the physical and mental space I’ve been writing my own memoir in, and I hope you’ll join me on the journey.