Sometimes I scan in photos that belonged to my mother just because I can view the scan at much larger sizes than the actual photos. This enables me to see details I can’t discern from the picture. Such was the case with this photo–I wanted to see what was on the shirt I was wearing. Once I saw it–a baseball shirt for the University of Washington Huskies–I recalled that I actually had two of these. I don’t know who gave them to me, because I don’t remember knowing anyone connected to UW. But I liked wearing baseball shirts, so I guess that’s why I took them. If the giver ever sees this, thanks.
Beyond that, I noticed that I’m in my mother’s Northport apartment, I’m wrapping Christmas presents, and Hamlet is sitting next to me. It must have been unseasonably warm–not because I’m barefooted in December–I’m always barefooted unless it’s just absolutely freezing–but because my mother has a window open. Then I noticed there’s a roll of film next to me–reasonable, since it’s coming up on Christmas–and for some inexplicable reason, a bottle of Calamine lotion. I can’t imagine why I’d have needed that in December, so maybe that’s not what it is, but that’s what it looks like.
After I took note of all that, I closed the photo without any plan to use it. Then it kept nagging at me, and I went back to look at it. Upon reflection, it triggered a volley of memories that made me realize it’s the last Christmas my father was alive, and starting in January, I was about to have five of the worst months of my life, months that would change me in ways I couldn’t imagine. I stare at that girl and I wish I could warn her, but that’s not how life works.
Those stories are the ones that’ll never make it to my blog. They may be drastically altered and woven into fiction, but it makes me feel squeamish to think of sharing really private details of my own or anyone else’s life in a public forum. Sometimes, even when I’m reading fiction, I find myself saying to the writer, You put that in because you’re writing from life and calling it fiction, but the story would be better without it.
Recently a writer said to me about a narrator she created, “I don’t know if he’s interesting enough. The other characters seem more engaging.” But I think we learn a lot about a narrator by what he chooses to tell us–and what he leaves out.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I don’t share the gritty stuff. At least I don’t have to worry about too much truth-telling earning me defamation lawsuits.
Well done! Hopefully you’re filling your notebooks with a lot of useful ideas for future writing projects.
The notebook in my head, at least. I keep thinking of that tantalizing photo of your notebooks, though.
I’ll never tell, except that somewhere on the other side of all that I was waiting for you. Life is weird like that.
That’s the kind of life experience that gives a person perspective. If we just hang on through the bad stuff, there are all kinds of good people and experiences yet to come.
that is one of the sweetest things I have ever read. I worship Tom.
I will be sure he knows. He feels–UNJUSTIFIABLY–more like Rodney Dangerfield around here, so it’ll be a refreshing change for him. 😉
That’s an interesting point. I’m debating beginning a project that is somewhat autobiographical, but I’m not sure how I feel revealing so much personal info in my writing, especially when some of the key players are still living. But, on the other hand, isn’t all writing “personal?” I’m waiting for the wind to push me one way or the other off this fence.
For what it is worth, there is something of my Mother – something she said or did in everything I write. She knows it immediately, one time she reacted with remorse, the next time she was pleased, but felt I got the facts wrong (MUTH ERRR, that’s why they call it fiction!) And I just told her about something else, which she inspired me and she looked at me and said “That’s not me, that’s your cousin … ” what can I say, she’s my muse. I’m fortunate that she likes it.
I’ll answer both David and you at once. I use very little of real-life people in my fiction. I may borrow from an event, and I definitely lift conversations from real life. But especially where there’s a lot of pain–other people’s pain–I try not to touch it. Fortunately, that kind of pain would be misplaced in the fiction I write, so it works out.
There is one very painful incident in my life that I used once, but I wrote the character the way I WISH I had acted and not how I actually did act. The other people involved, should they read it, would be miffed–but the likelihood of their reading it is about zero, I’d say.
But when it comes to memoir and autobiography, it really wouldn’t be authentic or good if you omit the down and dirty stuff. And I’m not going to violate my privacy or my family’s.
That’s why I call these entries “legacy writing.” What I’m writing is true, or true to my memory, or true as to how it was told to me, but I deliberately skew what I’m writing here toward the good, or at least toothless, things. That means I’ll never have a huge blog audience, and I’m okay with that. There’s no way to avoid talking about catastrophic life changes like death. But even then, I try to be really careful what I say.
If people think they find themselves in my fiction, I don’t really correct them. Usually it’s the good stuff they attribute to themselves, so everybody’s happy. 😉
The one thing that caused her a bit of remorse was something I think was very essential, and something a lot of women can relate too … so it had to go in. But honestly, everything else has been done with love – and she knows that.
Yeah, I’d say as long as you don’t Mommie Dearest her, all is good.
For David P and specifically related to gay writing:
I think the writers who came in that amazing group before–(and I know I will inadvertently leave out important names)–White, Picano, Holleran, Weir, Feinberg, Ferro, Kramer, Maupin, Mordden–they very much took from their lives and fictionalized them, and that was the right thing to do. Their writing lifted a curtain and gave visibility where there was none, and certainly by the time they were writing the Eighties, it was a matter of life and death to write from reality. Without them and their work, not only would fiction be the poorer, but they helped drive social change.
When writing from life is consciously crafted to be literary, I think it’s important to self-edit. Not to take out the painful or gritty stuff, but to leave out the things that distract from the story. That’s where I think most people struggle. They think they’re supposed to tell everything, because every real story has a million details. Not all of them are important to know.