Narrative lives...

[kitchen_kink]

Somewhere in this great ticking wasteland of words in the ether I'm developing a story. There is something continuous here; there simply has to be.

All the time that I am complaining to myself that I am not writing, I am writing--here, in these pages, in this place. Am I somehow, unconsciously, writing the amorphous, novel/memoir/narrative of my life, waiting for the moment when the thread through it becomes clear, when the details cohese and become Story?

Here I chronicle thoughts on my day to day life. Not the point-by-point, what-I-did-today journaling of those who keep records, but also not the outpouring of angst and processing that my paper journal tends to be and has tended to be since middle school. What is this form? My dear friend R----- is struggling with a similar question: memoir-essayist? Is it fiction or nonfiction? Who decides?

At home nights I sometimes get the guts to write about my childhood, and that slowly weaves itself into the fabric as well. I find myself less and less interested in creating fictions that obliquely illustrate truths about my life, and more interested in my life itself, as parts of it recede further and further into the past. They say to write what you know, but what I know is often so close that the fictive result is a mash of contradictory actions and feelings: the character seems at best inconsistent, at worst, insane. How long before the narrative I make here can become fiction?

Is it true that I now have enough distance on my nine-year-old self to talk about the beach community I lived in, in the middle of winter, where the streets flooded and the nuclear power plant chugged white smoke a few miles offshore, bringing me nightmares?

Can I really write about my first kiss now, or the time on the bus, in high school, when the bully asked me to make an analysis of the firmness or softness of my breasts by comparing them to different kinds of food?

It is a strange thought, that perhaps I am reaching that moment of equilibrium, where I'm far enough into the interesting part of my life that the beginning of it stops hurting and wants to be told.

Who knows, though: it may prove to be interesting to no one but myself.

Comments

[harlequinaide.livejournal.com]

I've always said that memoir and autobiography are the basest forms of fiction: that which is not truth, but pretends to be. They are memory. And, as any of my ex-lovers can tell you, memory and truth are a long way apart. A memoir is a memory made interesting, something that might have been true woven into something that isn't anymore. The writer often believes it is, and so do many of the readers, but the characters are fictions, created by the writer's imagination, as surely as the inhabitants of my fiction are creations of mine. I reach into my life and pull characters whole cloth, dipping them in the river of fiction on the way to the page, and I still have the self-honesty to call it fiction.

I detest things that call themselves "memoir," because the author isn't just lying to themselves, which is something we all do, every day. They're lying to me, trying to convince me that their story is somehow less fictional, and therefore bears more importance, than mine. Their stories, their faulty memories, are given veracity by the act of committing them to ink, and giving them a certain title. I deny them this false-truth, and call them out for the fictions they are.

Mark Morford asked, "When did whining about your life become art?" I tend to agree. Whether they are fiction or not, I see little value in memoir. The occasional memoir can be interesting, but when the literary form becomes an excuse for everyone and their brother to write about their abusive childhoods, it gets old, fast. I find it more satisfying to read about someone's fictional childhood abuse than to have someone's "real" (by which they usually mean, "fictionalized, trumped-up or dramatized") damage. I have enough real damage of my own, thanks.

Have I mentioned that I'm not a big fan of the memoir-as-non-fiction fallacy?

Journals, on the other hand, I enjoy immensely. I take them for what they are: whining, fictionalized, faulty memories of an event. But they're unfolding before my eyes, giving me others' perspectives on the same events I'm living. And that's something else, entirely. By the same token, reading about the childhoods of people I care about interests me, because I already care about them. I want to know them better, because knowing them better enables me to better understand them, and their part in my life. It this fantasy of "memoir as high art" that baffles me.

hmm.

[sanghasong.livejournal.com]

unlike your previous commenter, i do not think memoirs are necessarily psuedo reality, or trumped up fiction. that said, i understand the point that memoirs are necessarily subjective. but to me that doesn't confer on them any more, or less, validity than, say, a fictional tale which deals with the same topic.

good writing is good writing. i admire your writings very much, and your openness is a breath of fresh air in my daily routine. i would welcome the chance to read about your past, just as much as i look forward to reading about your present thoughts.

as regards the point you made above about being far enough removed from the past to relate it untroubled by it, there's only one way to find out!

Re:

[dietrich.livejournal.com]

I detest things that call themselves "memoir," because the author isn't just lying to themselves, which is something we all do, every day. They're lying to me, trying to convince me that their story is somehow less fictional, and therefore bears more importance, than mine. Their stories, their faulty memories, are given veracity by the act of committing them to ink, and giving them a certain title. I deny them this false-truth, and call them out for the fictions they are.

Woo, strong words!

I didn't take any memoir writing or nonfiction at Emerson, but I'm well aware of the continual discussion of memoir vs. fiction, and the question, What is 'true'? I think that much of the memoir written today is intended to be fiction-like, and putting the name of 'memoir' on it just serves to telegraph to the reader that some version of what's in the book "really happened," or that they're using real names.

The stuff I've been writing, not in this journal, of late has been some adaptation of memory, using false names and changing details at my whim. Is it merely the "based on a true story" label that frustrates you? How do you figure that someone writing a memoir is staking a claim of higher literature, or higher importance, than a fiction tale?

Re:

[harlequinaide.livejournal.com]

I was being all MFA and pretentious last night. :-) Seriously, statements like "based on a true story" bother me a little, because if it's "based," it means that it's not a true story, but people still believe it, anyway, and treat it as though it were fiction.

I was talking to my class about this today, and the difference between "truth" and "fiction." Not everything which bill itself as "non-fiction" is true, necessarily. Memoir is non-fiction, technically, but it's no closer to truth than any other fiction. What you're writing is your life, made fictional, which I think has more value, in some ways, than a memoir.

Everything I write comes from my life in some way. Even if I'm writing about a scizophrenic homeless man, the characters and situations come from people and things I've observed or known. But memoir, deliberate, self proclaimed memoir, I think, degrades both fiction (by saying, in effect, "I'm more valueable because I'm 'true'") and non-fiction, by making truth a non-essential part of non-fiction.

Your mileage may vary. ;-)

Scary TV

[newfytron.livejournal.com]

Hey, I totally wanted to tell you I friended you and ert this morning, when I was hiding from "Invader Zim" in the kitchen with you. Attack of shyness. I really like your journal though, and you SURE know how to start a fire...

Re: Scary TV

[dietrich.livejournal.com]

Hi! Yay! Shyness, eh? Why?