Truth Telling

Writing, for me, is more of a need than an enjoyable occupation; I do it because it keeps me sane, because it is the best way I know to express myself to the world. Otherwise I stay locked up in the box of my reserve and shadowy fantasies and none of it gets across.

Writing fiction can be fun, but it is also frustrating. I seem to always get lost in the minds of my characters, forgetting all about any kind of forward trajectory in the story. Books can be written without plots, I suppose, but they're just as likely to be a frustration and dissappointment to the reader, and I am by no means a good enough writer to pull it off with satisfaction.

The main obstacle is that fiction is by definition intended for other readers. We write stories because we want them communicated, because there is no escape from the characters bantering inside us and we must set them free or go mad. This sets the expectations at an extraordinarily unachievable level. All we can do is write, and hope that it pleases others. But the purpose of fiction is to please others, not to please one's self.

That is what sets fiction apart from the memoir, an essentially self-centered genre which pleases others by accident. Of course, memoirs can be written to please audiences--and have been--but then they are not true confesssionals. A true memoir is an unadulterated picture of the author, a first person journey that delves into the lonely places that exist only within our minds.

I suppose I should admit that I am a sucker for the first person. I have not yet read a memoir that I did not enjoy, and most of my favorite novels are written in the style of one reaching back into the annals of memory. I don't know what draws me to it, but I am enthralled by the first person, by the experience of inhabiting another's skin. What better way to understand our fellow human beings, what purer system for accruing empathy? If C.S. Lewis' definition of friendship--two people who find a quality in each other that they thought belonged to them alone--is accurate then I have found a friend in each of the first person narratives I have read.

My first experience with the memoir, or autobiography, if you will, was richard Rodriguez's Hunger of Memory. It is an intense, absorbing, internal book, punctuated in short, violent sentences that perfectly express Rodriguez's struggle with his ethnic background. On the surface, I have nothing in common with the writer, yet this account of his thoughts and experiences touches at some deep chord.

I have never consciously sought out memoirs until a recent trip to the library, where I was looking for reading material that would entertain as well as satisfy. I pulled numerous fantasy books off the shelves in the Young Adult room, thinking I was in need of a good yarn. But it didn't seem like enough. I decided to look in the biography section, where I had gotten lucky before. But I wasn't really looking for nonfiction either. What I found there addressed my needs much more satisfactorily. The Mother Knot, a short, gripping and turbulent memoir written by Kathryn Harrison, had me from the first page.

I've become a somewhat impatient reader, and if something doesn't speak to me immediately, I am unlikely to finish it. My reading appetite has become very specific and no less voracious, for better or worse. I find it hard to concentrate on books of a lesser caliber than the literature I've grown accustomed to. Yet I also want interest and excitement; I don't appreciate pedantic or pretentious prose. So it's become increasingly hard to find reading material to suit my needs. Much YA fantasy, although excellent in its own way, doesn't measure up to my current needs. So what does?

The Mother Knot made me realize that what I wanted were personal accounts, creative nonfiction, autobiography with emotion. In short, the memoir. I racked my brains, trying to recall what other books I knew of that might fit the bill. On the shelf before me I found Out of Africa by the Baroness Blixen posing as Isak Dinesen, a book that has been lingering in my mind since I watched the movie adaptation starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford (need I say more?).

After some searching I also found the book Dreams From My Father, written by our current President. This was a book I had been meaning to read for some time, since the election in fact. I had previously made a go at The Audacity of Hope, his personal political manifesto, so I was expecting something similar--a well written and sincere work, but reasonably dry and political nonetheless. What I found was astounding. Obama admits in the prologue that he set out to write a book about race in America--intending to cover affirmative action, discrimination, segregation, and any number of other terms, with perhaps a personal anecdote or two. But the story that came out was deeply personal, extremely pensive, and to a certain extent unpolished. Of course, Obama's writing, like his speaking, is near flawless. But he makes no attempt to hide personal lapses or moments of doubt, and the book is better because of it. It reads like a novel, which leads to some questions about the credibility of all the fully detailed events he recounts from memory. But it seems to be an earnest attempt at honesty, which is refreshing, coming from a politician. The book was written, of course, before Obama even dreamed of becoming President and thus offers a telling glimpse into how his past has shaped him as a person. It does seem astounding that a boy of mixed racial background who identified primarily with his African-American side and spent a large part of his childhood amidst the diversity in Hawaii and the poverty of Indonesia, is now leading our country, whatever his personal or political failings. But I digress.

 Out of Africa has very little to do with Dreams From My Father, aside from the most obvious connection--Baroness Blixen owns a farm in Kenya, the same country that Obama's father hails from. Out of Africa also reads like a novel, with lush descriptions of scenery and moving dialogues driven by fully developed characters. Blixen's attitude towards the "Natives" is characterized by her status and background as a farmowner and Western European, and may seem offensive to some. However, she also seems to have developed a great sense of respect for the various tribes that populate her corner of Africa, and their seperate traditions and practices, no less respectable because they happen to be non-western. She certainly loves her adopted country with a passion, and brings its beauty to life upon her pages. From the very first, I was transported to another place in time, and the journey was effortless. I have a hunch that this will soon become one of my favorite books, for its lushness is unrivaled in all the works I have read so far.

And I have read quite a bit about Africa--or at least, parts of it. One of the greatest (and most memorable) books I read was Shake Hands With the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda written by General Romeo Dallaire, who was in charge of the UN peacekeeping mission that was sent to halt the genocide in that country during the early 1990s, and proved all too ineffective. Dallaire's perspective is of course shaped by his (sometimes horrific) experiences, but it is well expressed and valuable as a primary account.

It seems that the ultimate purpose of the memoir is to speak truth, to echo something constant and universal by telling a story taken from true life. Fiction can speak to us in the same way, of course, in spite of and because of its removal from reality--that is why I find fairy tales so compelling. But it always comes with a disclaimer: all content is a work of fiction. That is why memoirs, drawn directly from the fabric of existence, can do even more to answer this need--to speak the truth in this world of lies in which we live.