All great memoirs have something in common. Whatever the story—whether the author has climbed the Himalayas or plunged deep into despair, or both—their passion to make their experience known is so palpable, you can practically hold it in your hands. Like an invisible thread lingering, it thrums, “I must tell you what happened … what I’ve learned … how I didn’t think I’d make it through … yet I did, and how it made me more alive … In fact, I can’t not tell you because, even though my experience is different than yours, perhaps, it will spare you some heartache and change your life for the better. Then I’ll no longer feel like a lone soldier out there—but connected to you, dear reader and, perhaps, that which is greater than both of us.
“This is my gift, what I have to offer.” 
I especially feel passionate about women’s memoirs. Our time is now. Women are rising up and claiming their voices and power through their stories. Yet the sharing has to offer more than just the author’s catharsis— a “dumping her guts” on the page rather than going to therapy. I recently read a prominent women’s memoir and towards the end, she did exactly that. She’s written a lot of books and got away with it. Yet I was disappointed. I felt like she forgot about me and wrote that last part only for herself.
The keyword is learn, and why perspective is crucial in #storytelling. Only after we’ve experienced a challenge and come through to the other side integrating what we’ve learned, can we see beyond ourselves to share a larger, universal perspective. Then we’re ready to tell our story. And our story is ready to be told.
Believe me, authors don’t go through the intensely challenging yet, self-loving task of writing their memoirs just to get rich, ha-ha (not that it doesn’t happen). Most often, the biggest rewards are the intangible ones described above.
