Musings on memoir writing

Marcus writes of this morning's taping of West Coast Live at the Freight & Salvage , which he attended along with Adam and I.

As he notes, the taping included a panel of three female memoirists discussing unusual paths to motherhood and, in one case, grandmotherhood: Andrea Askowitz ("My Miserable, Lonely Lesbian Pregnancy"), Mary Pols ("Accidentally on Purpose"), and Adair Lara ("The Granny Diaries").

At one point, the panelists fell into a discussion of regrets: How do my friends, family, and other associates feel about their portrayal in the book? What is my responsibility as the author when it comes to including others? Do they have a say? Adair Lara flat-out said that if given another chance, she would not choose to write her memoir about her daughter ("Hold Me Close, Let Me Go"). Mary Pols said she'd taken some flak from people she'd included in her book. Andrea Askowitz said her family was supportive about her novel.

I found this part of Marcus' post particularly relevant:

The compulsion to lay bare painful stories for public consumption is curious. For serious memoirists, honesty is the most important value. Your identity as a writer is more important than the connections to the people and places that have made up your life. Your identity as a writer is more important than the connections to the people and places that have made up your life; this is very hard to explain to the vast majority of people who will never write a memoir. Needless cruelty has no place in a memoir (or anywhere else), but there's no getting around the fact that candid reflections are going to strike too close to the bone.

Every memoirist has to decide how honest to be, and what is too personal or potentially harmful.

I call my memoir The Project. Same diff. I nail my parents. I peel open family turbulence. I talk about shit I couldn't imagine myself revealing even six months ago. What will this eventually mean? My mother knows what I'm writing about. My father has no idea. My mother will probably read the book, cry, and be proud of me. My father will be furious.

I go back to what Marcus wrote: Your identity as a writer is more important than the connections to the people and places that have made up your life. This is something to chew over. Every time I write about Adam, I ask: Is this okay? He's never said no.

But I'm not about to clear what I write with the people I portray: My parents, my doctors, my classmates, my friends, the various associates and acquaintances who appear in what I write. I'm tempted to say in my typical defiant manner: It's my story and I'll tell it as I please.

It is my story. And I will tell it as I please. Regrets may come. They will be more mild than if I'd decided to turn away from speaking the truth.