Four different photos from a five-year span. Same person, four different looks.

Someone once nicknamed me “the chameleon” because of my habit of changing my looks and blending into the background. “You should have been a spy,” another said, “You never look the same.”

It’s true, I’ve met friends I haven’t seen in months and they haven’t recognized me, even when I was standing next to them. Once, I was sitting with some friends in a café the night after I’d given a storytelling performance. A couple of women who’d been at the performance joined us and began talking about how much they had enjoyed the stories I had told. After several minutes, one of my friends pointed out that I was the man they were gushing about. I was sitting next to them. They’d looked right at me yet hadn’t recognized me as the man who had entertained them the night before. They apologized for not recognizing me but I explained that I was more flattered that they had remembered the stories I told and here they were re-telling one of them. Recognizing me was insignificant.

So, what’s this have to do with memoir? I’m not entirely sure, hence, an attempt to write about it in the hope that I can understand it better. Maybe it’s what my memoir coach Marion Roach Smith means when she says, “Memoir is not about you. It’s is about something, and you are its illustration. Specifically, memoir is about something universal – mercy, forgiveness, discovery, justice, or patriotism – and your story illustrates how and what you learned about that universal.” (Look her up at marionroach.com).

Maybe my love of memoir has something to do with my feelings around my self-image or body-image. I’ve never been that comfortable when it comes to my body. Aging hasn’t helped. I’m in my seventies and until recently, haven’t been in an intimate relationship. Thus, I haven’t felt a pressing need to “be attractive” or “stay in shape,” whatever those phrases mean. I could stand to lose twenty pounds or so, and my doctor has suggested I exercise to get my heart rate up. Well-meaning friends have no end of suggestions, too. “Get a haircut”, “Trim that beard,” or “You’d look so young if you shaved it off.” And now that I have an online business, the few photos I’ve posted of myself have drawn criticism. “You should smile” and “That selfie is not very flattering.” And there always those who hint at some deep-seated psychological issue as in “What are you hiding under all that hair?” Everyone has an opinion about how I should look.

It’s odd. When I was a kid, I hated people staring at me. I kept a low profile, trying not to attract attention. I felt awkward, geeky and gangly. Yet, ironically, I ended up becoming a performer. I joined band hoping to stand in the background but I ended up centre stage as the front man because my bandmates thought I could sing. I sang because I wanted to express myself. I just didn’t want to have to present my looks to the world to do it. During breaks, I’d disappear into the van or the hotel room until it was time to go back on stage. A lot of people thought I was antisocial (I was) and stuck up but I think my bandmates understood. When I came back on and stood behind the microphone, I felt protected, camouflaged. All that mattered were the words I was singing and the connection I felt with my bandmates. If I had to expose my looks to the audience, it was a trade I was willing to make.

Eventually, the pressure to look and perform took its toll. I returned to university as a mature student and discovered that your words mattered more than looks. What you said on paper was more important than how you looked. Eventually, I returned to performing as a storyteller, travelling from place to place where few people knew me. Children didn’t care what shape I was in. They cared about how I inhabited the characters I was portraying and bringing to life. Then, one day, I was asked to bring a storytelling workshop to adults with developmental and physical challenges. Many struggled with body and motor control. Some voices were unintelligible. But I realized they all had stories to tell. And they enjoyed the stories I told. So did the people who cared for them.

Around 2013, I began working with organizations supporting people afflicted with a variety of chronic illnesses: ME/CFS, Parkinsons, arthritis, cancer, addiction and other mental health challenges. Eventually, that led me to working with older adults in the end-of-life field and to legacy work — helping people make sense of their lives through personal and memoir writing. Sitting with women and men in small rooms in nursing and care homes, with our aged and afflicted bodies, we strove to tell our stories and listen to one another. And for a time, we forgot our aches and pains and how we looked to the world. Stories made sense of change. Not a cure for it, but a healing all the same.

Writing and telling stories hasn’t cured me of my body anxiety, but it has convinced me that having a safe space to share our stories is important. The first lesson of storytelling is on creating safe space for birthing stories. Whether I’m in a care home, a hospice, or a small rural museum, it’s not what I look like that’s important. It’s the quality of the space.

When I set up the Memoir Studio, I intentionally focused on the concept of a safe space where writers could come to write. Unlike most coaches, I chose not to focus on my image. No professional headshots or fancy poses of me in nature, yoga studios, exotic locations, or leaning on a desk in some prestigious office. I’ve tried those. The proof is in photos 1, 3, and 4 above. The first is a selfie by the fireplace in my son’s house. The third is a selfie with AI-enhanced background, and the fourth is a photo of me during a storytelling performance. I don’t like any of them, but each attracted its measure of praise and criticism. They were my attempts to meet someone else’s idea of how I should look. The second black-and-white photo is how I’ve chosen to look now. Most say it makes me look old. One of my brothers said it made me look like I was “homeless”. But I like it and until I change my mind (which I probably will), it will remain.

But all the business coaching advice I read or am told is that looks matter. People want to know who they are dealing with. Bio and “About” pages are the first places potential clients go to on your website. They look for your photos to see what you look like and discover who you are. Of course, I know that makes sense. Yet, I still want people to gravitate to the Memoir Studio, not because of how I look, but because of my invitation to come to what I hope is a safe and welcoming space to learn about memoir writing and find some resources to support your writing practice. Of course, if you take one of my in-person or small-group courses, you’ll meet me. I may not look exactly like I do in the few pictures you find of me on the site, but I’ll still be me: a caring, gentle, soul who loves helping people find the meaning in the past and turn them into meaningful stories.

So when you come to the Memoir Studio website, I hope you’ll look beyond “looks”. There will be the odd photo of me, but I can’t guarantee that if you meet me, I’ll look the same. But read what’s there and I’m sure you’ll find me. And I hope one day, I get to meet you in one of your stories.

Michael Williams is the founder of the Memoir Studio (memoirstudio.ca) and a certified Guided Autobiography and Life Portfolio Instructor and accredited End-of-Life Planning Facilitator. He offers both in-person and online small group memoir coaching and resources. He currently lives in Hamilton, Canada although he’s known to make occasional journeys abroad to tell stories and bring a few home.