“We all know who’s in the pictures”—a poor excuse for skipping captions

This is a three-part series about choices I wish my clients hadn’t made during their personal history book projects. (For what it’s worth: in my first draft of this post, I referred to “mistakes” I wish my clients hadn’t made—and then I remembered, memoir is, by definition, a personal accounting of one’s life, and far be it for me to dictate a writer’s personal preferences.) That said, clients come to me not only for help finishing the projects they envision, but for my expertise in elevating their projects to be the best they can be. So, I thought sharing a few of these differences of opinion might be instructive for those waffling over similar decisions.

Challenge 1: Should I include “the hard stuff” from my life in my memoir?

Challenge 2: Should I include a family tree in my life story?

Challenge 3: Should I include captions in my memorial tribute book?

If you’ve ever discovered a box of old family photos and wished you knew who was in them, perhaps you’ll understand my disappointment with one client’s decision not to include captions in her tribute book. This spread is from another client’s heirloom book—see how unobtrusive a caption can be?

“Please stop asking me about captions.”

First, let’s sketch out the type of book I was working on: My client—let’s call her Maria—came to me wanting to create a memorial tribute book honoring her mother, who had recently died. I interviewed Maria and her sister to capture their memories of their mom.

The stories they shared included anecdotes about their four other siblings, their father, and a smattering of aunts and uncles who lived in the small village where her mother lived all her life. Maria and her sister had moved out of the country where they were born decades before, and their own young kids knew their grandparents only from the annual trips the family would take—and didn’t really know the rest of the extended family at all.

Maria’s intentions with creating this tribute book were twofold: She wanted a book the family could pull out and read from on the anniversary of their mother’s death, a tradition they hoped to begin on that first-year anniversary; and they wanted an heirloom they could pass to their children so they could remember the grandmother they lost too soon. “I want my kids and their kids to know my Mami,” she told me.

In the earliest manuscript phase, I asked Maria to identify all the people she mentioned in her stories—to create a list of names and how they were related to her mother. I intended to use this both within the text and in captions for clarity. Each time she submitted corrections to the manuscript, it seemed like she forgot to answer this one query from me, so I would ask again. And again. Finally she told me, “I don’t think any of that is necessary.”

Hmm, okay. I decided to wait and ask for details in the layout phase.

The book was written, edited, and designed, and a first-draft proof was sent to Maria along with questions from me as the editor. My comments included things such as:

[PAGE 8, CAPTION: There are 24 people in this beautiful wedding photo. I think we should identify them, from left to right, so the next generation knows who is in the photo and how they are related. Please provide names in order of appearance in the photo.]

Maria’s response was firm: “We don’t need that, because we all know who the people in the picture are.”

So, I would again begin to probe:

Me: “Who are you ultimately creating this book for?”

Maria: “My son and daughter, and my sister’s children. And, God-willing, their children.”

Me: “Do you think they will know who these people are?”

Maria: “No, but I can always tell them if they are curious.”

Me: “But why not make it foolproof? Why not document their names, so generations from now there will never be questions about their family history?”

Maria: “I REALLY don’t want to.”

We had a few circular conversations like this, before I finally gave in. 

Maria’s book is a gorgeous, heartfelt tribute to her mother. I have no doubt she and her siblings will read from the book on the anniversary of her mother’s death and feel closer to her. And I know from our conversations that the process of creating the book—of sharing her memories, and giving herself space to sit with them intentionally—was healing for Maria; she told me so numerous times.

But I can’t help but regret that, as I imagine it, one day her grown grandkids will flip through the book and wonder, Who is that next to our great-grandmother?