To a non-writer, it
might seem that being truthful in writing is easy—just tell it.
Here’s a passage from a
good writer that is on-point.
The passage is on page
thirty of the novel Lila by Marilynne
Robinson. The protagonist of the novel is a silent young woman whom the reader
does not yet know well. She is sitting
with an elderly minister in his kitchen, drinking coffee. He has just told her an event about
angels.
She
said, “I liked that story.”
He
looked away from her and laughed. “It is a story, isn’t it? I’ve never really
thought of it that way. And I suppose the next time I tell it, it will be a
better story. Maybe a little less
true. I might not tell it again. I hope
I won’t. You’re right not to talk. It’s a sort of higher honesty, I think. Once you start talking, there’s no telling
what you’ll say.
Read that last sentence
again—Once you start talking, there’s no
telling what you’ll say.
Most people don’t
suffer at being writers. Truth in
writing is more complicated than most people understand. Once we writers start talking—writing—there’s
no telling what we’ll say.
What we writers say is
for the good of the story we are telling.
The good of the story we are telling becomes our motivation, which is
paramount. Truth notwithstanding.
If the need of the
story is for its protagonist to step off the porch and to trip over the cat,
then that is what the protagonist does—even though the truth of the incident was
that it was the bottom step of the inside staircase, and it was the dog.
Lila
is
a novel. Fiction is one thing; memoir is
another. I write memoir. It’s harder.
For one thing, the people
you write about in memoir are still alive, or they may be, and they have a
right to privacy—which is true even if they’re dead. For another, you yourself have a right to
privacy, even when you seem deliberately to have opened yourself up. But the main difficulty about your memoir is that
your memoir is not about you. Your
memoir uses you to support its real
subject. Its real subject is your theme
for writing.
What are you writing
about? Not you. Frankly, no one is much interested in you
except a few friends and relations. It’s
your theme that is of general interest—you hope.
If your memoir’s theme is how pet ownership has opened up
your life to greater awareness of God, let’s say, then it really doesn’t matter
if the accident was prompted by the porch and the cat or by the stairs and the
dog. Either is relevant to the theme.
However, you know that it was the stairs and the
dog.
That’s the truth trouble,
right there, because what you write is that it was the porch and the cat. You write that it was the porch and the cat
because, later, at the climax, when the awareness of God comes vividly upon you,
that event actually happened on the porch, and you need to use the porch and
the cat for the accident so that your memoir, as a whole, will make both thematic
and literary sense.
How do you balance?
Theme? Truth?
Or do you serve each
need at the same time—by using techniques of fiction, without stepping across
the line into fiction?
Readers of your book
want to be excited by your memoir, not because it is about you, but—on the
basis of your theme—because it is about them.
It’s about them even though you have gussied up their awareness of themselves
in interesting new ways for them. You have
let them experience your locale, your adventure, your relationship, your trouble.
They are drawn into your
memoir by this. They stay with you,
inside your book, because of what you have revealed to them about them.
Each draft of your story perfects your story,
while each draft is a little less true. That’s
because once you start to write your story, there’s no telling what you’ll
say.
copyright, Dikkon Eberhart, 2016
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