How many Books?

How many times have you started to write your memoir or non-fiction book?

A zillion at a guess and each time ‘it’ takes on a different flavour.

When you look at each they are all different with different purposes – aren’t they?

And you are full of great excuses as to why you have never finished.

The way I see it is that you’re writing three books at once, and they’re tearing each other apart and competing. You can’t see it; we never do. They look like one book, but they are not.

In the next fifteen minutes you’re going to find out which three you’ve got – and which one is the one you want to proceed with.

Get a cup of tea. You’ll need something you’ve written, even a just one page. And a pen.

First – the three books

• Book A – the story. What happened, including the scenes, the people, the kitchen (I have a kitchen in my story), the phone call, and the day it all changed. Book A has people moving through parts of your life as if they are wandering through the rooms in your life. It trusts the reader to watch.
• Book B – the teaching. What you learned. The bit where you turn to the reader and explain what they should take from it. The five things that got you through. The method. Generous, useful – and a different book.
• Book C – the reckoning. The book you’re writing at somebody. The ex, the parent, the one who never said sorry. It runs hot, it’s furious, and it needs to come out while building a case. Every line is aimed at a person you never name.

Every one of those can be a good book, but none of them can be the same book – because each one asks the reader to do a different thing, and generally you can’t ask for three at once.

Hold all three in mind. Now let’s find yours.

Part one – the count

Get out something you’ve written. The abandoned chapter or chapters, an old journal entry, a blog post or the long email you once sent your sister and secretly thought was rather good.

Read it slowly, and every paragraph or two, put a letter in the margin.

• A – this is a scene. Something happens, somewhere, to somebody.
• B – this is teaching. I’m explaining what it means.
• C – this is the case. I’m addressing somebody, or defending myself.

Don’t agonise, please don’t do this; trust your first instinct. If a passage is genuinely two things, mark it both – that tells you something too – it’s all good information.

Now count them up.

My A’s: ___ My B’s: ___ My C’s: ___

Circle the one you’ve got most of. That’s your dominant book. Don’t celebrate yet – you may have changed your mind, but for now you are getting some clarity, and that can only be a good thing.

Step 1: Read Each Question Carefully

Go through the following questions and answer each one 1 to 5.

1 = not at all · 5 = completely

The only advice here is to notice what happens in your body as you read the questions. Things might pop into your head and take you off on tangents – come back to the questions and choose your truest answer.

“1. When I imagine the finished book, I can see specific scenes – a room, a face, a day – more clearly than I can see the lessons in it. ”

The Questions

1. When I imagine the finished book, I can see specific scenes – a room, a face, a day – more clearly than I can see the lessons in it.

2. There’s a person I’d love to read this and finally understand. I can feel who they are even now.

3. What I most want is for the reader to learn what I learned, so they don’t have to do it the hard way.

4. When I write about the hardest thing that I experienced, I find myself explaining what it meant before I’ve actually shown what happened.

The Questions

5. Part of me is writing this to set the record straight.

6. I could tell you the theme of my book – the thing underneath the events – in one sentence.

7. When I picture writing the pure story, no explaining, just what happened, something in me lifts – I feel energised.

8. When I picture writing the pure story with no lessons in it, something in me panics – as if without the teaching, there’s no point.

The Questions

9. There are passages I’ve written that I know, in my gut, are really addressed to one specific person.

10. If that one person read the whole book tomorrow and simply said “that’s not how it was,” it would take the wind out of the entire thing.

First things, First

Before you read your pattern, come back through the ten with me. None of them were really about what they seemed to be about. Each one was listening for something underneath – come and explore with me.

First off – don’t change any of your answers. Just sit with each one again, and then listen to what it was actually asking, and notice whether your first answer still feels true in your body – your body is great at letting you know what’s going on.

1 · Could you see it, or were you working it out?

“I can see specific scenes – a room, a face, a day – more clearly than I can see the lessons in it.”

• What you thought it was asking: have I got a good memory for detail?
• What it was really asking: when you close your eyes on your book, are you a storyteller or a teacher?
• What your body did. If you scored high, something came back to you as you read it – the light casting a shadow on the kitchen table, a smell, a TV in another room, a lump arriving in your throat out of nowhere and fury building. That’s sensory memory, and it means the story is already alive in you. If you scored low, your mind went instead to a shape – chapters, themes, a list of things you want to get across. That’s the teacher waking up first.

Underneath. Neither is wrong. But if the scenes come to you before the lessons do, you mostly want to write the story – and if you make yourself write a tidy how-to book instead, you’ll die boredom and go and chase the next shiny thing, because the part of you that creates wants to build a world, not hand out a pile of worksheets – that’s for your course or workbook later. You saw the kitchen, so trust the kitchen.

2 · Is there one particular person you can already feel reading it?

“There’s a person I’d love to read this and finally understand. I can feel who they are even now.”

• What you thought it was asking: isn’t it normal to want to be understood?
• What it was really asking: are you writing for the world, for anyone who ‘should’ be reading this or holding the whole book close to your heart for one person?
• What your body did. If a specific face showed up – and you’ll know if it did – notice what came with it. A recognition, holding your breath and a little heat in the cheeks as you imagined them, precisely them, turning the pages, nodding their head and reaching for their journal.

Underneath. Wanting to be understood is one of the most human things there is, and I’d never talk you out of it – it is so important. But when there’s one face – an ex, a parent, the one who never said sorry – every sentence quietly bends toward getting through to them. And a book written to make one particular person finally understand is a book waiting for a reply that tends not to come. They have moved on or just don’t care. You deserve a different reader than that.

3 · Are you reaching for the reader’s hand, or stepping back from your own fire

“What I most want is for the reader to learn what I learned, so they don’t have to do it the hard way.”

• What you thought it was asking: am I being generous?
• What it was really asking: are you stepping into the role of wise guide so you don’t have to be the one it happened to?
• What your body did. Your chest lifted with a deep sigh; you felt a sense of purpose, of being useful – and, if you’re honest, a small step back from the actual ache of the memory. Usefulness is a lovely place to stand, but it’s also a slightly safer one.

Underneath. Your generosity is real, as is your deep sense of purpose. But readers don’t fall for our neat solutions – they fall for our mess, our fumbling, the bit where we didn’t know yet. When the urge to spare them the hard way is louder than the urge to show them what actually happened to you, you may be rushing to the rescue so you don’t have to sit in the flames a moment longer. If the teaching is genuinely your gift – wonderful, that’s a hybrid, and it’s a real book. If it’s a way out of the heat – that’s worth knowing too, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all do it.

4 · Do you explain the meaning before you’ve let us in?

“When I write about the hardest thing, I find myself explaining what it meant before I’ve actually shown what happened.”

• What you thought it was asking: do I summarise instead of writing scenes?
• What it was really asking: are you using the lesson as a shield, so you don’t have to go back into your memories?
• What your body did. Watch for the breath going shallow as you approach the hard scene – and then the small wash of relief the moment you pivot into explaining what it all meant. That relief is the whole tell. Your body just told you where the shield is.

Underneath. I have been known to do this too. I call it the flinch. You don’t want to enter the place where something happened – it’s like getting to the door to the kitchen and not going in. Then you tell the reader this means x. Once again the lesson becomes the shield, and it keeps you safe and sadly the reader cold. As hard as it is, we have to go through the flinching stage so that they care. Flinching is ok – I have done it, but I always come back to explore and to share. You don’t have to force it. First you build something that holds you, and then when you are ready you go back.

5 · Is part of you building a case?

“Part of me is writing this to set the record straight.”

• What you thought it was asking: shouldn’t my memoir be accurate?
• What it was really asking: is there a barrister sitting at your desk – prosecuting, or defending?
• What your body did. It stiffened. Very likely your jaw. Then the flush of I’ll show them. The urge to make it airtight, so no one could ever argue.

Underneath. “Setting the record straight” is a courtroom instinct, not a storytelling one, and the two want completely different things. A court wants evidence and a verdict. A story wants truth, and change, and a human being who’s flawed and moving through their stuff. If your book is built like a legal case, it’ll stall – because nobody, including you, can bear to live in a courtroom for three hundred pages – unless you love courtroom dramas. Your reader doesn’t want to be the jury. They want to be beside you. A little of this is in almost everyone’s draft; it’s just worth knowing how much of yours is arguing rather than telling (or showing) the story.

6 · Do you know what it’s about, underneath what happened?

“I could tell you the theme of my book – the thing underneath the events – in one sentence.”

• What you thought it was asking: am I good at summarising?
• What it was really asking: do you know the difference between what happened and what it meant – the plot and the thread running under it?
• What your body did. If you could say it, there was probably a long exhale, a nodding of your head, a quiet yes (with a wry smile). If you couldn’t, I bet the fog rolled in, you felt confused, thought of fifteen plot points at once, and a slight panic.

Underneath. This one tells you what kind of stuck you are. If you can name your theme in a sentence – this is a book about learning to trust myself again after years of being told not to – but you’re still blocked, then your block isn’t confusion; it’s probably fear (and that is very common). You know what it’s about and you’re frightened to go there; I get it. If you can’t name it yet, you’re not lost – you’re just still holding the rawness without a spine, and finding that spine is teachable. You will find your theme, and it may surprise you.

7 · Does the plain story lift you?

“When I picture writing the pure story, no explaining, just what happened, something in me lifts – I feel energised.”

• What you thought it was asking: does storytelling sound fun?
• What it was really asking: where does your real stamina live – because you’re going to need it for months.
• What your body did. It gave you a ‘yay’. And you probably feel lighter, and your breathing softened, and here it comes – that smile. An actual lightness. The chest opening, the jaw loosening, maybe a smile you didn’t plan. Then comes a genuine itch to go and write right now.

Underneath. Your head can strategise all day. It can talk you into the book it thinks will sell, or the book it thinks you should write. Your body can’t do any of that – it feels energised, or it doesn’t. Energy is a great compass. Writing a book is long, and some days it’s heavy; if you pick the version your strategic brain approves of over the version that energises you, you’ll run dry somewhere around page thirty. Follow your energy even if it’s a little scary.

8 · When you take the lessons away, is it excitement or panic?

“When I picture writing the pure story with no lessons in it, something in me panics – as if without the teaching, there’s no point.”

• What you thought it was asking: is my story useful enough?
• What it was really asking: are you a hybrid writer by choice – or a frightened one taking cover behind advice?
• What your body did. A spike of panic. A feeling of being suddenly exposed, uncovered. Perhaps a small old voice: who do you think you are, just writing about yourself?

Underneath. This is question 7 held up to the mirror. There are two people who score high here, and only you know which one you are. One feels energy at the thought of teaching – the method is genuinely their art, braided into the story on purpose. The other feels terror at taking the lessons out – because somewhere they believe their own story isn’t important enough to be allowed to exist without earning its keep. If that’s you, listen up: your story does not have to be useful to deserve the space it takes up. It’s allowed to simply be true and to exist. That belief that you have to justify yourself – that’s not your story’s problem. That’s an old wound, and it’s one writing can actually begin to heal. Writing always heals me first.

9 · Are there secret letters already on the page?

“There are passages I’ve written that I know, in my gut, are really addressed to one specific person.”

• What you thought it was asking: have I written about real people?
• What it was really asking: is there something unfinished holding your book hostage – already there, in the writing?
• What your body did. A bit of anger showing up as focused heat as you thought of those passages – something almost combative, like sealing a letter you’re not sure you’ll send; your pulse picks up at the prospect of seeing ‘their’ face.

Underneath. Question 2 asked about your wish. This one asks about the evidence already written. When a passage reads like a letter aimed at one person, your voice changes without you noticing – it goes from warm and open to tight and defended. And the general reader feels it instantly. They feel like they’ve walked into someone else’s argument in someone else’s front room, and they back quietly out, ever so slightly embarrassed. Finding these passages isn’t about cutting out your truth. It’s about noticing where the book stopped talking to its reader and started talking past them – so you can decide, on purpose, what to do with that.

10 · Could one person’s “that’s not how it was” take the whole thing down?

“If that one person read the whole book tomorrow and said ‘that’s not how it was,’ it would take the wind out of the entire thing.”

• What you thought it was asking: am I frightened of criticism?
• What it was really asking: who owns the truth of your life – you, or the person who hurt you?
• What your body did. It deflated; you felt a sudden tiredness, the air going out of you just imagining it.

Underneath. This is the finish-line question, and it’s the most important one for whether your book ever gets done. If a single person’s denial could collapse the whole thing, then – gently, but truly – that person is quietly in charge of your book. And the people who’ve hurt or misunderstood us rarely read our story and say You’re right, that’s exactly how it was. I’m sorry. So a book that needs their agreement to stand is a book that waits forever, and dies in a drawer. Your experience is yours. You were there. You don’t need their signature on your own life – and learning to believe that, fully, is one of the quiet miracles of writing the thing at all. Believe me, I have struggled with this too.

The three books, one more time

Here’s what all ten were mapping, underneath:

• Book A – the story. The reader watches. It comes from what your senses remember.
• Book B – the teaching. The reader learns. It comes from your wisdom – or, sometimes, from behind your shield.
• Book C – the reckoning. The reader is asked to be the jury. It comes from something still unfinished.

When all three fight for the pen, the draft dies around four thousand words – because the poor reader is being pulled out of their seat in the theatre, sat down at a classroom desk, then shoved into a jury box, three times a chapter. No wonder it stops.

You’ve just found out which one is pulling hardest. That’s not a small thing. That’s the thing almost nobody stops to learn.

Now – read your pattern.

You don’t need to add everything up. Look at the clusters.

If your highest scores are 1, 6 and 7 – and your count was mostly A

You’re writing memoir, and you have been all along.

• Good news: the three books aren’t your problem. Your story is a story, and part of you already knows its shape. What’s stalling you is almost certainly something else – most often that you haven’t yet let yourself write what it’s really about. The real theme is usually the one you’re avoiding.
• Your work: stop circling and go toward the thing underneath. That’s the book.

If your highest scores are 3 and 8 – and your count was mostly B

You might be writing a hybrid – or you might be hiding.

Two possibilities, and only you know which.

If your highest scores are 2, 5, 9 and 10 – and your count had real C in it

There’s a reckoning tangled through your book, and it can’t be finished while it’s in there.

Book C’s ending is the moment the person you’re writing at reads it and understands. Says sorry. Concedes the point. Sadly, that moment isn’t coming – they’re gone, and usually they simply wouldn’t recognise themselves, because people rarely do.

So you and the book wait for a response that never arrives, and you rewrite the case tighter and tighter, and the tighter it gets, the less anyone else can breathe in it.

But writing it wasn’t wasted. Some things have to be argued out on paper before you can tell them in a way that matters. You just can’t publish the working-out. Print it, put it in a folder marked OLD, or burn it – some people need to – it’s what I would do. Then write the book that doesn’t need anyone’s permission to be finished.

If your scores are spread evenly across all three

That even spread tells you that you’ve been trying to write three books in one, and no amount of fiddling with your sentences or faffing around was ever going to make it THE book.

And look at that in fifteen minutes you have some clarity.

Go you!

The healing memoir

You went through something – illness, loss, breakdown, a life that came apart – and the book is how you made sense of it. Its gift to the reader is that they are not alone. Mine started here, and I think many do. And it might never be published – I’ve watched people write it, heal, and turn it into a journal for others, or a course, or a circle they now hold. The book did its job whether or not it ever gets published.

The coming-of-age or life-stage memoir

A rite of passage – growing up, marriage, motherhood, a decade abroad, growing older. The reader comes for the company of someone a little further down the same road. And that road becomes work, if you want it to – coaching, courses, workshops, speaking to the people just setting out on the bit you’ve already walked.

The adventure or experience memoir

Something you did – a journey, a year out, a bold or strange undertaking. The reader comes to live it alongside you. And these become stages and causes – a speaking life built on the story, or the book turned into a rallying point for something bigger than the trip itself.

The legacy memoir

Written for your people. The story that goes when you go, made into an object they can hold. Its reader is named, and often not yet born. And these travel further than you plan – one family’s story becomes a wider family’s, a community’s, sometimes a teaching for others wanting to capture theirs before it’s lost.

The hybrid memoir

Story braided with what you learned from it – deliberately, so the reader feels it before they’re taught it. This is the one built from the start to carry a business – but as you can see, it’s far from the only one that can.

A true memoir

Story first, honestly told – can do real work in the world once it’s out there. Not because it markets anything. Because of what it does to the person who reads it.

But – the story still has to be true first

Here’s the order that works, and the order that doesn’t.

• Doesn’t work: decide what you’re selling, then reverse-engineer a story to justify it. The reader might feel manipulated, or something’s not quite right.
• Works: write the truest version of what happened to you. Find the real change, transformation, cost, the thing you really learned. Then – and only then – notice what business it naturally points toward.

Don’t decide what you want to do with your book. You came here to find out which book was yours, and you have – I hope.

The job it might do in the world – for your clients, for the people three steps behind you, for the ones who come after – that reveals itself later, and only if you want it to.

A book that’s true first, and useful second, in that order, isn’t selling out. It’s how it works, and it’s the right way to build something. I have found that once the book is written or almost completed, the ideas start to flow, and that is a whole new ball game to play with.

And why now?

You might be waiting to feel ready, but ready doesn’t turn up with a side order of fries or whatever you eat. It doesn’t wake you up and say ‘hey babe, we are ready to go’. You can see I have waited years to write this book – Journey Of The Heart – because I needed the distance. And I was a little fearful, if I am honest. But waiting starts to feel like a heavy rain sodden coat. And it’s time to take off the weight you have been carrying and write.

Just think about it: you just did a simple test, reviewed your work, added a dash of honesty, reflected and most likely had a eureka moment.

So many people never stop and do the review; they just leave the parts of their life, their experience and wisdom in journals and on their hard drive. That to me is a crying shame.

Your book is saying now – write me now.

Don’t wait for the version of you who has more time, more courage, or more distance from the stuff. That person you, and they are readier than they think.