Writing About Family: Truth and Consequences

 

 

Storytelling has existed since the beginning of humankind. Our stories are the connective tissue that holds humanity and possibly even the universe together. Poet and activist Muriel Rukeyser famously wrote, “The Universe is made of stories, not of atoms." Every person on this planet has a unique life path and therefore an interesting tale to share, and yet so many of us struggle with whether or not we have the right to tell our stories. We are silenced by the fear upsetting others, mainly our family, in writing our truth.

Who Owns The Truth?

I begin my book Fire Season with this note:

“In my extended family, arguing over versions of our history is practically a blood sport. My relatives will wrestle each other to the mat about the way it all went down. In reality, there is no such thing as absolute truth, only our personal interpretations of it. Each of us sees life through our own unique lens. The best way I’ve ever heard it described was by a woman I met in a writing group. She said as her mother lay dying, she and her sister sat on either side of the hospital bed, holding their mother’s hands. At the moment of her passing, the sisters spoke simultaneously. One said, “She’s gone cold!” The other said, “She’s still warm.” And both statements were true to the women who made them.

I do my best, as a flawed and complex person myself, to write with compassion and understanding. There are no heroes or villains in my books, only imperfect humans doing the best they can. Mine is not the elusive absolute truth, but it is my truth.”

The bottom line is that you own the rights to your life story. No one else can shape it, or write it like you can. Your story is the only thing of true value that you own-- the one thing that can’t be taken from you. Cherish that.

Write Honest Characters:

In memoir writing, it’s important to write with objectivity. If I portray myself as the hero and someone who wronged me as a one-dimensional Hitler, the reader is not going to believe it, and the story won’t work.  Even Hitler had a dog he loved. That’s the interesting part. Every character is rich with contradictions. Our job is to find those contradictions and flesh them out -- to portray each character as a whole human being. Fiction writers climb inside each character, listen to their voices. Every character comes to a scene with his or her own agenda. Even in memoir, we need to get behind the agenda of each character. Let’s say you’re writing about your mother (and honestly, who isn’t?). The message of the book can’t be “My agenda was to be happy but my mother’s agenda was to make me miserable.” From your perspective, that may be true, but certainly that was not your mother’s sole agenda in life. A powerful writing exercise is to try writing the scene from your mother’s point of view, in her voice, then rewrite the scene, from your perspective but with deeper honesty and a fuller understanding of each character.

Fear of Abandonment

Writing the truth is both terrifying and liberating – for you, and for the reader. The fact is that no matter how careful you are, you’re going to hit a nerve and upset some people, because, as Pema Chodron says, fear is a reaction to moving closer to the truth. Being a writer means telling the truth, facing the fear of abandonment, and writing through it. Initially, when first putting pen to page, write like an orphan. Forget your family. Dump it all out of your head, every single word, thought, and feeling. And then take some time away from the manuscript.  When you return to reread and edit, keep only what is absolutely necessary to the arc of the story. Delete everything else. Find compassion for every character. Soften the edges of your anger. When you finally hit send on the manuscript, keep in mind that it’s called a book “release.”  Release it. Your work now belongs to the world and the readers to judge, to love or to hate. For my own moments of panic, I have these words from author Steve Almond above my desk:  

 

 

Be proud of yourself for releasing a complete work of your unbearable feelings, and let the world do with it as they will. 

 

** An excerpt of this article was published in Writer's Digest: http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/3-rules-on-writing-about-your-family

 

 

What To Do With a Rejection Letter

In Stephen Bishop’s guest bathroom, there is a framed rejection letter from Apple Records, saying that they found his compositions “unsuitable” for their catalog.

When you exit the bathroom and walk down the hall, however, you’ll see this -- walls lined with gold records that followed in the years after that rejection letter, as well as Grammy nominations, and an Oscar nomination for his song Separate Lives (performed by Phil Collins). Stephen has performed on Saturday Night Live, the Midnight Special, and in concerts around the world. In addition to his own top hits with “On and On” and “Save it For A Rainy Day” (with Chaka Kahn) his songs have been performed by Phil Collins, Eric Clapton, Barbra Streisand, Art Garfunkel, Steve Perry, Stephanie Mills, Kenny Loggins, Johnny Mathis, Phoebe Snow, David Crosby, The Four Tops, and Pavarotti. Apparently, his music was more than suitable.

I love that he framed this rejection letter for all his guests to see. It made me want to do the same. Last week my book Fire Season received an ugly, negative review on Amazon. Inspired by Stephen,  I posted it on facebook for all to see. (Maybe I'll frame it, too.) Having just been in Bish's bathroom, I  decided to laugh these negative words off. Just because someone doesn’t understand your art, your music, your writing -- doesn’t mean your work has no value.

When I first started sending Fire Season out, my own agent, at that time, passed on it. “It’s not a universal story. People won’t relate to it,” she said.

Another agent said, “No one reads memoir. Memoir doesn’t sell.”

A publisher said, “You’re not a celebrity, we can’t take a risk on it. Good luck, though.”

Just think, if every artist, writer, painter, poet, musician, inventor, comic, etc. listened to the voices of the “critics,” there would be no art in the world. No music. No books.

I believe every one of us should do our art, whatever form it takes. Write. Paint. Act. Invent. Brainstorm. Build. People will tell you it’s impractical, and a waste of money. People might think you are crazy, lazy, or irresponsible. You might even say these things to yourself (the inner critic is the worst). Do your art anyway. Do it, because it’s in you and no one else can do it like you can. Do it for no other reason than the joy of doing it. Do it, because in spite of the critics (who are most likely frustrated artists lashing out at others), the world needs your unique fingerprint.

Frame your rejections, and put them on the wall. I agree with Stephen, a bathroom is the most suitable place to hang it.

For Fun: Here are some rejection letters received by very famous, very successful artists: http://mentalfloss.com/article/55416/10-rejection-letters-sent-famous-people

Stephen Bishop is still writing amazing songs. Find them here: StephenBishop.com 

The 5 Things I Gained From Losing Everything...

(This story was posted on "Maria Shriver's Architects of Change."  It is excerpted from my new memoir "Fire Season: Losing Everything and Finding Myself." With deep gratitude...)

On the morning of November 18th, 1994, my family seemingly had it all: a strong marriage, two kids and a gaggle of rescue pets. My husband Troy and I each had our own businesses that we ran from the home we were renting. We volunteered at our kids’ schools, threw parties, took business trips — it was a great life.

But that night, we went to bed in a burning house. A freak electrical short began smoldering in the walls as we slept, erupting into hellfire in the middle of the night. The fire pressed us up against the windows, gasping for air, our skin burning. We were forced to jump from second story ledges with our children, onto the cement below. The inferno raged, windows blowing out, as the life we had built vanished before our eyes....(read the rest HERE on Maria Shriver's website)


Watch an excerpt of my live interview on AOL.com:

Also on "Maria Shriver's Architects of Change", read Amy Ferris and my co-authored piece "Letting Go of Shame, Thelma and Louise Style"

The Chimpanzee Ate My Manuscript

My new author photo?

I’m having one of those crappy writing days. You know the ones…when you’re typing away, then you go back to read it and it seems like a chimpanzee had commandeered your keyboard…or maybe your cat walked across it? What is this senseless drivel streaming from my fingertips today???

This may be the problem - I am close to finishing my second memoir, What Doesn't Kill You. I’ve got 80,000 words, with only five chapters left to polish, and then it’s pretty much done.

I have worked on this sucker six hours a day, five days a week, for one year. Now that I’m close to finishing it, I should be elated, right? Well, I would be, if my internal Woody Allen wasn’t obsessing about what I’ll obsess over after I’m done obsessing over this book.

I’ll miss my love-hate torturous relationship with it. I’ll miss the ranting and moaning over it (though my husband surely won’t). I’ll miss the way its blank pages taunted me.

And of course, as always, there’s the fear of putting my whole self out there. I’ve already got a first Memoir (Only Good Things) sitting in a drawer. Only a handful of my close friends have read it. It took me eight damn years to write, but even against the protest of my writer friends, I couldn’t risk releasing it into the world- at least not yet- for the harm it may cause to others involved. It’s kind of explosive, and I am trying my best to live a kind and compassionate life.

In the interim, I’ve put my writerly self out in the world in drips and drabs- through essays and blogs and songs. But now it’s time to tell my whole story. This one will not be kept in a drawer. My agent has already given me the go sign and is awaiting it.

And that is the most likely reason that the chimpanzee has taken over the keyboard today.

But take heed, inner Chimpanzee- for you will be avenged!

The Crucifixion of James Frey

Painting by Ed Ruscha, for James Frey

Anyone who reads my blog knows that my life is all about telling the truth, that is – my personal truth. But who are we to define what another’s truth is? And what is truth in art?

I read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces shortly after it came out, and loved it. As a person with an addict father and brother, it opened my eyes and helped me to see things in a new way. I immediately sent the book to my father, and he too, was rocked to his foundation by it.

And then the big scandal hit. It seems Frey “embellished” details of his memoir.

Okay.

And...?

Did this change the experience I had reading the book? No. Did it change the fact that the book had enabled me to see addiction in a different way, and to have a better understanding of my father? No. I didn’t care whether Frey had spent three months or 3 minutes in prison. I didn’t care whether he had anesthesia at the dentist or not. The book was ground breaking and fresh and artistic. His voice was compelling and authentic. It moved me. It made me think. Isn’t that what a great book is supposed to do?

I, too, wrote a memoir. I spent 37 years trying to forget my past, and another eight in therapy and in writing groups, trying to remember it. And even though the book is written, I struggle with whether or not to publish it, because truth is a powerful blade, and you have to be careful how you wield it. And, as I know all too well, many people will challenge your truth. But memoir is not journalism. Memoir is your own personal story, as experienced through your own filters, as told by YOU. No one else can tell us what our truth is, or should be.

One friend, after reading my manuscript, had a hard time believing I could remember so much detail about my young life. As I told her, in memoir writing, you start from the deepest most searing memories, and you work from there. The moment that changed your life could have been one simple statement, or a memory that is a 20-second video clip in your head. But that does not a story make, and so we must paint in the rest of the picture. None of us have lived our lives carrying around a tape recorder, so you do your best to fill in the missing details. I kept journals all my life, which helped a lot. I also did genealogy research and interviewing family and google fact-checking on my own stories.

But in recreating the rest of it, you have to ask yourself, what is emotionally true to me in this scene? How did I feel? What colors did I see, what did the room smell like? When writing dialogue, you have to bring each character back to life in your head. How did Uncle Joe stand, speak, walk? What were sayings he always used? Would it be honest to say he would have used one of his famous “Uncle Joe-isms” in the scene?

All of my writing teachers over the years have told me to “write what is true”. But in memoir, some of the strokes are loose. One of my favorite essayists, Tony Earley, wrote a story about watching the moon landing in 1969. After it was published, a fact-checker rebuked him for saying it had been a full moon that night, because in fact, it had been a quarter moon. Does that mean Tony Earley is a liar, and everyone who read that piece should get their money back? No. It means that as a small child, the moon seemed so huge and unreachable as he looked up through his neighbor’s telescope, that his mind remembered it as big and round. Our memories do that - fill in the blanks. Each of us will tell the same story a different way. What is true for you may not be true for me, and there is no such thing as absolute truth anyway. So who are we to say what was emotionally true for Frey?

One of the things I found so exhilarating about A Million Little Pieces was Frey’s irreverent disregard for rules: He used no punctuation, capitalization or writing rules. He had no MFA. A copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style was certainly nowhere to be found in his writing lair. So why is it a shock to anyone that he paid no attention to “memoir writing rules” – and what are those, anyway? His book was his own piece of art- a world that Frey has often said he is more influenced by than the literary world. And so, he wrote his story in his own way. As Frey said on Oprah yesterday, Picasso’s “self-portrait” has him looking like a strange, blue, cockeyed monster, so does that mean he’s a liar and a fake? A Million Little Pieces is Frey’s self portrait, and maybe he is portraying himself as a strange, blue, cockeyed monster.

I find it ridiculous that the world went so crazy with judgment on Frey, including Oprah. I have to admit, I was disgusted watching her persecute him on national television in 2006. He didn’t deserve that. As a writer, I personally would never stretch the truth the way Frey did, but I’m not him. I write the way I write, and he writes the way he writes. He plays fast and loose with the rules, I don’t. So what. Either you like the book and it opens your eyes, or it doesn’t. Get over it and let Frey get back to using his voice his way.

I will agree that he and his publishers shouldn’t have called his book  “memoir”, because it casts doubt on the rest of us who are trying to write in that genre and be taken seriously. Maybe he could have done what Tony Earley did in his book Somehow Form A Family – which was to classify his book as “Stories That Are Mostly True”. Or, like a TV movie of the week, he could have said it was a story based on his own life experiences. That would have solved the problem. He initially shopped the book as a novel, and it didn’t sell. They asked him to publish it as memoir, and it was an off-the-charts success, inspiring people all over the world. So that was his deal with the Devil- letting the book be mis-categorized for the sake of getting it sold. But for this man to have been nailed to the cross and humiliated in front of the world, to the point where he had to move his family to another country to escape the finger pointing and threats, we have to ask ourselves not what is wrong with James Frey, but what is wrong with us?

Fall-ing

(coolest tattoo ever "hopedreamperseverebreatheloveseehear" and to have it on your wrist...also the best suicide prevention ever.)

It’s overcast this morning and that should make me happy- relief from the 110 degree weather we had last week, but instead it fills me with that Fall sense of gloom and doom. I envy you Fall-lovers who rejoice at the change of seasons, the howling winds, the long dark nights. Those of you who grow your own pumpkins and love apple cider and the smell of sharpened pencils on the first day of school.

As I watch the leaves wither up and die, I often feel a foreshadowing sense of my own death, or maybe there’s a part of me that dies in Fall. Fall is flu season and fire season, the time I become pent up and pensive. I lied in bed this morning watching an old Tennessee Williams flick, which certainly didn’t help matters. Somebody stop me before I pull The Bell Jar from my bookshelf. Friends don’t let friends read Sylvia Plath in the Fall.

Speaking of friends, Amy Ferris challenged me to make three miracles happen this week, and I’m stumped. My mind is blank. Well, it isn’t actually blank. I met with Cindy yesterday who just finished reading my manuscript. We spent hours talking about our lives. It took me writing a book for us to realize how much we have in common, more than we knew after years of close friendship. We didn’t talk as much about the book as we did about life, and that in a way is a good sign. If a person can read my book and relate to it, know she isn’t alone, that so many of us have carried common burdens in silence…then there is a reason for me having lived this life, and written this book, which means there is a reason to publish. And THAT is what’s really on my mind this morning and probably why I’m feeling so gloomy.

Rufus Wainwright’s “Dinner at Eight” is playing over and over in my head. It’s a song about his tortured relationship with his father that breaks my heart anew every time I hear it. His lazy, sorrowful voice drones on, “No matter the cost, I’m gonna take you down with one little stone, I’m gonna break you down and see what you’re worth, what you’re really worth to me.” And by the end of the song I am bawling my eyes out, because that is me. I am David, my mother- Goliath, looming tall and indestructible, untouchable, silencing me all these years. But I hold this little stone in my hand, the slingshot in my pocket. One little stone….truth. I could let it sail, and it could destroy her. Or maybe, hopefully, not. She’s pretty damned strong. Taking her down was never my intention, in fact it's the last thing I'd want. I can change all the names, all the identifying characteristics and still I know the truth will burn through and hurt us all. But God I've got to release this stone. I can’t walk through life any longer with the weight and responsibility of it. If I just put it in my slingshot and send it hurling out into the universe… anything could happen, and can I live with that?

Harriet Beecher Stowe once said, “The truth is the kindest thing we can give folks in the end.” But still I wonder….

(and do I think it is a coincidence that I met Troy's client Marc this morning- who happened to have the worlds' best tattoo? No, I do not. Thanks Marc Acito who by the way also has the coolest blog ever http://marcacito.blogspot.com/. )