The Wicked Ingénue

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.

She sits before the vanity in her dressing room. The twelve bulbs surrounding the mirror form a halo of imperfection around her image. They expose the mole on her cheek, the scar under her eyebrow, the lines around her mouth, the spider veins she inherited from her mother, the black roots snaking through the center of her frosted hair, the drunken mistake of a tattoo. Everything she hates about herself. Everything that’s helped her conquer the art of transformation.

Her makeup tools are spread out on the table like a surgeon’s. She has every method and every technique mastered. She knows exactly how to pat, how to spread, how to brush, how to smear, how to line, how to pluck, how to powder, how to conceal. She can make herself look like anything and anyone she wants. She has been everyone from a Grecian goddess to a jungle Jane to a dominatrix to an Egyptian queen. She is the benefactress of fantasy and a paradigm of illusion. It is only in this moment alone in front of the mirror that she is simply She, and it is this moment that perpetually horrifies her.

A red velvet chair she refers to as The Throne supports her nude body. The body with curves like an hourglass and breasts that defy nature. The body she starves herself to keep. The body she pollutes with substances that help her escape it. The body on stage that represents nothing more than allegros of sex and piqués of desire. The body that has left her pregnant with lust and sterile in love. The body she loathes yet solely depends on for survival. The body that is ephemeral and precarious yet denotes all of her net worth in this town, this industry, this life, this lie.

A mannequin in the corner wears her costume and watches through Styrofoam eyes while she completes her transformation. She leaves the vanity and greets the mannequin, removes its wig and headdress, unlaces its shoes, undresses it like a lover. This mannequin has become her confidant, her adviser, her companion, her champion, her best friend. This mannequin is the only being who does not tell her what she should do, how she should act, where she should go, who she should be. This mannequin is the only being who recognizes that when she walks out on stage, when she’s in the midst of being everything for everyone, when she takes a bow and stands there long after the curtain has dropped, she herself has become nothing at all.

About three weeks ago, I started my senior year of college. In case you didn’t know or forgot, I’m working on a B.A. in English. English with an emphasis in creative writing, to be exact.

I knew college would end eventually, but the end has closed in more swiftly than I imagined. I can almost see the “Welcome to The Rest of Your Life” banner at the end of the track. There’s also some balloons, a bottle of champagne, applause, and the ever-present student loan lenders waiting to collect. I can see them standing at the finish line holding a silver platter with a bill on it. The bill is resting on a ruffle of cheerful green lettuce. Lettuce the color of all that money I’m obligated to pay back.

(On a side note, did you hear that the U.S. dollar will most likely be replaced as the world currency? That’ll be an interesting transition)

Four years seems like a long time when you’re starting out, but to be honest, it goes by fast. Too fast, maybe. But I’m happy to say I’ve taken the time to enjoy every minute of it. The fun isn’t quite over yet, though. Because the finale of my academic endeavors is right around the corner: graduate school. Hopefully.

Originally, I was going to apply to ten MFA (Master of Fine Arts) programs. A couple of them were in Southern California, which is where I live, but most of them were back east. I’ve always had this romantic idea of going to the heart of the world to study writing: New York City. I thought about it all summer and asked myself if it was realistic. I mean, $50,000 a year? Finding an inexpensive place to live that isn’t in the ghetto? Learning to live without a car? Being 3,000 miles away from my family and friends? $50,000 a year? Seriously.

In the end, I decided that I’m going to stay in L.A. Going to New York is too expensive, too far away from my support system, and too far away from Hollywood, which is where I want to start my career. I’ve already begun applying for internships at all the big television and movie studios in town. I think it’ll be a good experience to have while I continue work on my memoir.

And then there’s Las Vegas. There’s always Las Vegas. I know this sounds funny, but I don’t like the idea of being so far away from my city. I like the freedom of being able to go there whenever I want. I like that I can drive there in the middle of the night, watch the sun rise from Red Rock Canyon, visit a couple of my best friends, do research for my book, and have a $5.99 prime rib meal all within 24 hours.

If I could live in Las Vegas, I would. But we all know what happens when Kristen lives in Las Vegas. And if you don’t, click “The Vegas Diaries” tab up there on the right.

Anyway, I’ve started the application process and I’m taking the GRE next month (it’s like the college equivalent of the SAT), so wish me luck. My list of ten has been cropped to four, and I haven’t decided what I’m going to do if I’m universally rejected. Just be a peon at a movie studio for a while, I suppose. And sell my memoir. Hopefully.

I know some of you might be interested in hearing about the progress of my book, so I’ll post something about that in the near future.

For now, back to writing.