In the 1600s, writers and poets would gather for an evening of artistic expression and discussion. Known as a literary academy, the all-men or all-women groups served as a meeting point for sharing topics of philosophy along with art in the drafting process. This column honors that sentiment with thoughts on craft and writing.
Recently, Lit Mag News had a guest writer discuss how her essays were a lie. She had written and published her essays at a certain point in time but then post-publication, things were much different. She gives the example of an essay she had written about a harasser. Some time after that piece was published, her understanding of this person changed and she actually ended up in a relationship with him.
I wonder, when we write creative nonfiction, how do we know we’re telling the truth?
The writer explains later about coming to terms with the discrepancy, which yes. If we held ourselves back from writing because we don’t know the future, we wouldn’t put anything on paper. Still I wanted to add to this discourse.
Years ago, I read Laura Munson’s memoir This Is Not the Story You Think It Is... Based on her NYT Modern Love essay, “Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear,” Munson wrote about a difficult summer where her husband wanted out of the marriage. The father of her two children turned to her one day saying that he was not in love with her anymore. Munson, instead of reacting with anger, took another approach. She encouraged him to find himself that summer. She remained stoic as he moved out. Munson admits to the emotional turmoil of it all within her story. But she endeavored to create a summer of joy—for herself and her kids. There are ups and downs, but it ends with the husband returning back to the fold of the family.
That memoir really stayed with me. When I came back to it later to see how I could use it in teaching, I found the news that Munson and her husband did inevitably divorce.
Does that mean the whole book that’s a sham? Absolutely not.
What made Munson’s memoir powerful was not whether her husband was going to stay. What made it resonate was her ability to let go of the outcome. She did not wallow in self-pity and write an entire book about how horribly wronged she’s been. She could not control the storms within her husband, but she was sure as hell going to allow herself and her children to have an exciting and creative summer.
That’s the same thought-process I have with your published essays. Just because your life has changed doesn’t mean there wasn’t a kernel of truth in the essay you wrote all of those years ago. Because you were striving to understand a certain part of your essence. And in doing so, you have unearthed that, allowing for readers to come in and find connection. Very likely, you have put into words something that individuals have been trying to understand for ages.
With the fact that a publication is usually fixed but we are in a constant state of becoming, it would appear that nonfiction writers are always lying. But I would argue that it is a bit like that part of your kitchen wall where the marks of your height have been recorded. Sure, you are no longer three feet four inches like you were as a child, but it still is you.
This really resonated - I personally feel as though I have had lifetimes within my so-far lifetime. And don't our cells regenerate something like every 7-10 years? If we are physically a different creature every decade, why would we remain static developmentally, emotionally, spiritually and psychologically? I think it is the late Wayne Dyer who said “For what is great in the morning, will be little at evening, and what in the morning was true, at evening, would have become a lie”