“Mia’s teachers want her to skip a grade,” some guy named Tim was saying about his daughter. This was a friend’s house, maybe five years ago. “But we’re gonna keep her in first.”

“Why?” I asked.

Several people turned and looked at me like I was an idiot.

“Um, because it would be really hard for her, socially?” he said.

“Yeah. You have to understand how hard that would be for a child,” someone else said. The condescension was palpable.

I tried not to roll my eyes. “Right,” I said. “But I’m asking about you, Tim, specifically. Not for generic reasons.”

He thought for a minute. Then, shrugging: “Mia’s sensitive. She’s struggled ever since her sister was born, not being the only child anymore. We don’t want to make it any harder for her.”

Ah–the rub. Personally, I found that more interesting than most of what else had been said. I don’t know if anyone else did.

*

I ask a lot of questions. More precisely, I ask “why” a lot, especially when the reason seems obvious.

Some people find this invigorating. Others find it annoying, ignorant, or tiresome. As an acquaintance once told me, “Your questions kind of derail the conversation.”

No one’s ever said outright that they found my questions dumb, but tone of voice speaks volumes. “Um, duh?” “Why do you think?” In Spanish: “Obvio.”

But I find my question-asking attracts the kind of people I like talking to (curious, introspective, open-minded, nuanced thinkers), and it pushes away those I don’t.

Thoughtful people tend to like “why” questions. People whose thoughts skim along the surface, who tell canned stories at parties, who want to control the topic and flow of conversation, don’t.

*

Recently I realized something: that my question habit is one of my most useful tools for ghostwriting. Especially memoirs.

This happened once:

“Then my wife told me she was leaving me,” my client said.

“What was it like to hear that?” I asked.

“Not great. I was mad. Upset.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you think?” he said. I waited. Then: “Well, because I wanted to say it first.” Pause. “I wanted to leave, not be left.”

Now I could write that scene had some depth.

Asking why unearths deeper motives and important backstory that lurk beneath the surface.

Those are our deep-sea creatures – our deeper reasons, hopes, and fears, the things we don’t talk about, the things beneath the dark surface that drive our actions and feelings and words.

We need to stick a periscope down into the depths and see what’s under there. That is the stuff of good memoirs. Those “creatures” are what separate the vapid from the deep, the Melania from the Mary Karr, the surface-y from the truly engaging.

*

If you’re feeling stuck with your memoir, or you want to explore it more deeply, you may want to work with a book coach. Someone who asks these questions, who can hold the torch for you as you venture into the depths.

(For more on what a writing coach does, click here.)