The number of words that fit on a page depends on factors like font size, spacing, and margins, but there are common estimates:

• A5 page (half of A4):
  Typically 250–350 words per page when typed in a standard font such as Times New Roman or Arial at 12‑point size with normal margins and single spacing.
• Royal page (often referring to “Royal” paper size, 6.14 × 9.21 inches):
  Usually 350–450 words per page under the same formatting conditions.

These figures are general averages and can vary depending on formatting choices

The number of spoken words in an hour depends on how fast someone talks, but there are common averages:

• Most people speak at 120–160 words per minute in a normal conversational or dictation style.
• Over one hour, that equals roughly 7,000–10,000 spoken words.

The total can be higher or lower depending on your natural speaking speed, pauses, and how structured the voice note is.

Effective captions can usually be conveyed:

• Describe the key point of the image: day, people, place..
• Add context or explanation
• Add an anecdote related to the image
• Connect the visual to the overall theme or purpose.

We don’t count the number of words in the captions, but we make it clear, and concise.

Our guidebook explains a clear, practical method for efficiently recording captions for each image, making the process smooth for both the editor and the storyteller. During photography, we use a simple numbering system, assigning codes such as A1, A2, B1, B2… to each image as it is captured. These codes are then entered into the supplied spreadsheet alongside key details, including the caption text, image placement, and any associated songs. Using this spreadsheet keeps everything organised and consistent, minimising the chance of anything being lost, mismatched, or misplaced

Deciding between first-person and third-person depends on how close you want your reader to feel to the main character and how much information you want your narrator to share.
Writing in the 1st person (“I, We”) places you directly inside the fire, maximizing intimacy and vulnerability. Writing in the 3rd person (“He/She/They”) creates psychological distance, allowing you to observe your own life with clinical objectivity or poetic detachment.

Most memoirs use the 1st person, but experimenting with the 3rd person can help a writer break through deep emotional blocks or trauma. Both perspectives can be applied within the same book, and even within the same chapter, though alternating by chapter is much more common. Combining these viewpoints allows an author to balance deep, internal intimacy with a broader, objective view of the story’s world.

Your hand is never faster than your mind; keep your mind flying. Physical writing speed (typing or handwriting) can choke creativity if you stop to edit every sentence.

As a fresh writer, writing details by hand or typing can cause writer’s block. Voice recording allows you to speak freely, capturing the natural cadence, emotion, and flow of your memories. Drop notes and ideas on paper or e-note are quick, bulleted reminders or fragments jotted down on the fly.

Let your thoughts fly unhindered. Brainstorm, dictate, or write messy first drafts without stopping to fix typos. The editor’s pen comes later; the creator’s mind must run free first. Besides, a closed teammate as interviewer assists you to gather emotionally and logically the story detail with less blind spots, even an AI memoir software applied is rather than making voice recording alone.

Writing purely for yourself is just catharsis—a diary entry meant only for your own emotional release. Writing to benefit the reader takes that personal experience and transforms it into universal wisdom, empathy, and actionable insight.

Your healing is simply the process, but the reader’s transformation is the product. Before sharing a story, always ask yourself: What does the reader actually gain from knowing this?

Imagine your mobile phone gets pickpocketed on a London street, and you walk away with a hard-earned safety lesson. If you simply lecture readers on basic street smarts, they might find your advice ineffective or even outdated. However, if you instead share how you cleverly hacked back into your own stolen device using a backdoor in a cutting-edge mobile game, suddenly they are gripped, entertained, and genuinely interested in what you have to teach.

Better still, why not turn it back to them by asking what solutions they can offer, or inviting them to share which apps or security tools they actually use to remotely lock down, track, or hack into their own mobile devices if the worst happens?

Factual truth is objective history—such as the exact calendar date or the name of a street. Emotional truth, on the other hand, is what it actually felt like to be inside that specific moment, capturing things like the crushing weight of loneliness or the electric shock of betrayal.

In a memoir, emotional truth always trumps strict factual perfection. If you happen to misremember the exact colour of a car, but you perfectly capture the raw terror of the crash, you have successfully achieved the true goal of a memoirist.

Furthermore, sometimes you don’t even need to deliver heavy evidence or laborious reasons to support the facts—close readers can instinctively sense the underlying truth. Ultimately, admitting to past crimes, mistakes, or sheer foolishness hidden behind that truth is no big deal in a private memoir; it is precisely what makes your account authentic and compelling.

Sanitized content protects people’s feelings and smooths over harsh truths to ensure everyone looks good. Raw content, by contrast, exposes the unvarnished, uncomfortable reality of your actual mistakes, deep-seated flaws, and unresolved conflicts.

A truly powerful memoir lives entirely in the raw. Sanitized stories read like bloodless corporate press releases, whereas raw stories are the ones that genuinely change readers’ lives.

Crucially, when laying your life bare, you don’t need to slap neat, heavy labels on yourself like tyrant, dictator, victim, betrayer, or any other negative archetype. Let your actions and vulnerabilities speak for themselves; true emotional honesty allows the reader to experience your humanity without you needing to play the prosecutor or judge in your own story. Ultimately, only close readers will fully understand who you truly are—remember, a sheep is never just a wolf wearing sheep’s skin.

Hesitating is staring at a blank page, paralyzed by how to begin a chapter or a book. A smooth opening plunges the reader directly into the middle of the action, sensory detail, or a striking realization (in media res) instead of starting with a boring chronological history like, “I was born on a Tuesday…”

Never start a memoir with your birth date. Instead, start with a pivotal moment where the world shifted on its axis—such as a defining love story, a major career breakthrough, or a life-altering immigration. Once you anchor the reader in that magnetic moment, all the other branches of your story are naturally triggered and ready to unfold.

When you reach this territory, you face a primal fork in the road: stall or go on. These memories are not just simple recollections; they are somatic shocks stored in the nervous system, muscle tissue, and bone—such as witnessing a parent slowly fade, surviving abuse, or having your body broken by violence or catastrophe.

Stalling means either letting the trauma freeze you into complete silence, or sensationalizing the pain until it turns into melodrama. Writers often fall into this trap because looking directly at absolute horror requires reliving its intense sensory shockwaves.

Going on does not mean rushing past the pain or wrapping it in a neat moral lesson. It means anchoring yourself in the exact physical details of survival—describing the blood, the silence in the room after a death, or the literal smell of destruction—not to shock the reader, but to show how the human spirit fractures and then painfully knits itself back together.

Your pen must become steady when your hands want to shake. You write it down so that the ghost is finally named, caged on the page, and transformed from a private torture into a shared testament of human resilience.

You do not have to walk alone. Trying to excavate deep trauma in total isolation can cause you to stall permanently or retraumatize yourself. You need an experienced, positive-minded mentor as a listener to walk this path with you—someone who holds the space, listens without judgment, and gently guides your hand back to the page when the memories threaten to overwhelm you.

A memoir is built on your lived reality, but the people from your past are real human beings with their own reputations, memories, and legal protections. When naming names, you hit a razor-sharp collision between artistic immersion and legal risk: libel versus truth.

A story told with real names carries weight, accountability, and total immersion. It gives the reader the raw, unfiltered authenticity of a real life. Using fictionalized names or pseudonyms can flatten a narrative, making a devastating family betrayal or a corporate clash feel like a distant parable rather than a true account.

The core conflict is that unproven truth belongs to the storyteller, while the antagonist often views it as defamation. What you experienced as manipulation, abuse, or betrayal can be legally classified as libel or invasion of privacy if it cannot be independently verified with documentation, letters, recordings, or uncontestable proof. Under the law, subjective memory is not always an acceptable defense against defamation.

You must carefully weigh your emotional truth against potential legal exposure. For minor figures or sensitive situations, changing names, blurring identifying details, or focusing strictly on your internal reaction rather than making unprovable accusations can preserve your story’s integrity. When dealing with major antagonists, rely on unassailable documented evidence, or consult with a legal professional to ensure your narrative remains unshakeable on the page.