On why memoirs are a lie
As writers, we create memories – memories for our characters and memorable characters for our readers. Revisiting the past is an integral part of storytelling just as it is an integral part of life. Especially if you’re writing a memoir.
I recently graduated from college, and instead of taking three months off before I start my Master’s program in September, I decided to take a few classes just for fun. Oh, yeah – I’m just a glutton for knowledge (or punishment, depending on your perspective). I took Asian-American drama and a Women’s Studies course earlier this summer, and they were both excellent. But neither of them was quite as thought-provoking as the current course I’m taking: Psychology and False Memories.
The definition of a false memory is exactly what it sounds like: a memory that’s completely contrived. False memories can be created by the individual having the memory or they can be implanted by someone else. It’s sort of like “Inception”, although most people don’t usually create years and lifetimes of false memories as the characters in the film do.
Here’s an example of a false memory: while approaching a STOP sign, you slow down, completely stop the car like a good little driver (not the California roll, as we call it here), and proceed. Suddenly, you’re hit by another car as you make a right-hand turn. You think the accident is all their fault – you tell the officer you stopped at the big red sign like you were supposed to and that the other car blew through their sign. But then you’re taken back to the scene of the accident and you see that what you thought was a STOP sign is actually a YEILD sign. Thus, the accident is your fault. But you could’ve sworn that was a STOP sign. You would’ve bet your life on it.
The power of self-persuasion is undeniable, isn’t it?
This is compelling material in and of itself, but I think the main reason it fascinates me is that it causes me to consider the objectivity of my own memories, which is essential to writing a memoir. I mean, we reconstruct memories all the time. Our memory isn’t 100% accurate, especially when it comes to memories of a personal nature. Sure, we can remember things like E=mc2 with 100% accuracy, but what about, say, your first day of fifth grade? You may remember bits and pieces–the red and white striped shirt you wore, the location of the classroom, the fact that your teacher was a mean old Betty with a big schnoz–but if your parents told you that you wet your pants in the mean old Betty with the big schnoz’s class that day and you don’t recall doing so, you may start to “remember” this event so that your recollection matches your parents’.
Alternately, you may choose to believe your parents are dirty liars and dismiss the story about wetting your pants on the first day of fifth grade. But how would you ever know if this really happened or not? Some people in your class may remember it and others may not. It’s all a matter of perception. That’s why when we go out drinking with our friends, we remember it one way (a glorious evening of debauchery that didn’t last long enough) and our friends remember it another way (a long evening of having to babysit the obnoxious drunk person in the group). Perception makes the world go round. And if you’ve ever heard a memoirist refer to his or her book as “real-ish”, it’s because their book isn’t a completely accurate portrayal of the truth – it’s the author’s perceived version of the truth. What’s real to the author may not be real to, say, her ex-boyfriend.
A while back, I posted a blog about my memoir (in short, my memoir is about my former life living, loving, working, and coming of age in the Las Vegas entertainment industry). In that blog, I included a few anecdotes about some pretty bad things that happened in Vegas. A few weeks after I posted the blog, someone with the same nickname and writing style as my ex-boyfriend posted a cryptic comment that said something like, “y don u tel dem da reel trooth? dat is moor intiristang”.
Of course, my initial reaction was to email this “annonymous” person and explain that his perception of the truth is very different from my own. Half the time, he didn’t even know what I was up to because he was drunk, high, or in jail, but that’s beside the point. The point is that he’s going to read my book and say, “dat din’t hapen” or “bich u a lya”. Or he might say, “i wonda y shee din’t incloode dat 1 ting?” I knew it would be pointless to try to explain the concept of real-ish and the concept of perception to my ex, so I let the comment go. But I started thinking about the comment again while taking this psychology class. Memoirs and reconstructed memories go hand-in-hand, and as a result, unintentional falsities are inevitable. It doesn’t mean the author is doing it on purpose – it’s simply that our brains are fallible. Of course, we think we’re right and everyone else is wrong–that’s just human nature–but that’s not the case. 100% accuracy doesn’t exist for mortal beings.
In the past, I’ve worried that the “truth” I’m telling in my memoir won’t match up with the truth of the people who lived it with me, especially if those people don’t like the way they’re being portrayed. But I’ve realized, especially after taking this psychology class, that all I can do is relay what happened through my eyes. All I can offer is my perception of the world and what I deem to be real. Of course, that doesn’t mean I condone intentionally making a bunch of shit up like some memoirists have done (and who knows how many people wrote entirely false memoirs before the Frey scandal)–in fact, I honestly don’t think I need to make anything up–but the bottom line is that I’m telling a story for the sake of entertainment and I have to tell it as such. There will probably be a few STOP sign moments along the way, but I’m learning to just go with that and accept the inevitability of unintentional falsity. Because you know what? We’re all guilty of it, memoirists or not.
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