Responsible Memoir Writing
Every memoir writer must answer this question for herself. You can seek out advice from nonfiction as well as fiction writers; just be prepared to hear a different answer from everyone you ask! Some writers and critics believe that we ought to feel free to write about anyone or anything, that the ideals of truth and art matter more than the feelings of individuals. On the other end of the spectrum, some people wish that memoir writers would just shut up already and stop airing their dirty laundry in public. With some soul-searching, you can find a comfortable place somewhere in between these two extremes. Ultimately, it’s your call.
“Confessions”: What about all of that dirty laundry?
Critics who complain about contemporary memoir writers tend to be hyperfocused on the titles that land on the bestseller lists. Some bestselling memoirs are beautifully crafted works; others are clearly designed to get the author some quick money and a lot of attention. Unfortunately, the good and the bad get lumped together as “confessional”-that is, writing whose only value is its shock value. What’s equally unfortunate is that memoirs which aren’t about highly dramatic subjects tend not to sell as well as the so-called “confessionals.” Oh, well. I don’t sit down to write and think, “Let’s see. What’s going to get me onto The Today Show or Oprah?” I’m guessing you don’t, either.
But let’s say that while you don’t fret about your potential bestseller status, you would like more than ten people to read your work. Do you have to divulge all the details of your most intimate, embarrassing, painful, or tragic experiences in order to write a compelling memoir? Not if you don’t want to. And maybe you don’t have anything unusually traumatic to reveal.
One of my all-time favorite memoirs is Vivian Gornick’s Fierce Attachments. The book centers on her difficult relationship with her mother. Neither Gornick nor her mother has a drug habit, a gambling problem, a criminal past, or a serious mental disorder. They just argue a lot. They love each other, but they can’t seem to understand each other. That’s the story. I love it because it’s a superbly written narrative about that most crucial of women’s relationships. I love it because it’s not about the most awful or strange things that ever happened to anyone. Surely, Gornick still had to struggle with the issue of writing about her mother and other people in her life; she still had to portray her mother honestly. Which brings me toâÂ?¦
How do we write about real people without getting slammed by guilt?
A certain amount of guilt is inevitable, I’m afraid. But you can take steps to minimize the guilt and become a more responsible memoir writer in the process.
Say you want to write a story like Gornick’s: an account of your relationship with your mother. There’s no abuse, no drinking, nothing horrifying to report. But your mother, like any other human being, has her faults, and you’ve got to portray them honestly, in a way that shows the reader who this woman is and who the two of you were and are together. You’ve got to include dialogue. You’ve got to tell us how you felt about her in the past and how you feel about her now. How on earth do you write this story?
First, put the thought of her reading it out of your mind. Easier said than done. But if she’s standing over your shoulder while you sit at the computer, how can you possibly type a word? Tell yourself you’re writing this as “an exercise,” as practice; at this point, you have no intention of sharing it with the world. (Some of my best work-pieces about my family-began as self-designed “exercises” in grad school; I knew that only my professors would read them, and I could decide later whether to share them with anyone else.)
Second, portray the whole person, her good and bad points. Your own good and bad points, too. Monsters don’t make particularly interesting characters; neither do sweetie-pie angels who never do wrong. The interesting character-the one who’s real to the reader, who seems like someone she might know-is complex. When you were a kid, did your mother criticize you at home but sing your praises in public? Did she act as if she couldn’t stand your father, then cry every day for months when he finally walked out on the family? Tell about her strengths and her weaknesses, and you’ll make her a sympathetic character, that is, someone we can relate to. Tell about your own strengths and weaknesses, the part they played in your relationship, and you won’t be seen as self-pitying or self-serving.
Third, you can choose to leave out details which might be particularly hurtful or embarrassing to her, without having to sacrifice the whole story. You’ll need to say something about your mother’s own upbringing, since it affected how she raised you. If she grew up dirt-poor or filthy rich, that’s important to understanding who she is. But say her father, your grandfather, had an affair which your mother never knew about until she was an adult. If you feel it’s just plain wrong to include this detail, don’t. It’s not something that shaped your mother during her childhood, and it doesn’t serve the story of how the two of you grew as mother and child.
Fourth, people’s reactions can surprise you – in a good way. When I began writing a piece about my own mother, it was one of those grad-school “exercises.” She was ill at the time, and the childhood memory was something I felt compelled to examine. By the time I finished the piece, my mother had died. I published my story and was immensely grateful for the chance to keep my mother’s memory alive; I felt that I had portrayed her sympathetically and honestly. I’d never know what her reaction to the piece would have been-but I still had to contend with my siblings. I finally showed the piece and a similar one about my father to my older sister, the protector of the family and the person whose reaction I feared most. To my astonishment, she loved both stories and could not have been more thrilled about the fact that I’d published them. I’ve read of similar accounts from other memoir writers who were pleasantly surprised by their families’ responses to their work.
