Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Based on a true story

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Last week I blogged about fiction versus non-fiction, and a friend posted a link to an article titled "Based on a True Story. Or Not." If you've got time to ponder the subject, go off now and read it. If you're in a hurry, here's my brisk summary:

The essay is about the use of autobiography in poetry. We, the reader, tend to assume that a personal-sounding poem is autobiographical. So what happens when we, the reader, discover that a personal-sounding poem is in fact fictional? Do we have a sense of being cheated out of something "real," or of having been fooled or tricked by the poet? Why do we want so badly to know that the poet wrote out of experience rather than imagination? Why does it matter to us?

Because it does matter, at least to many of us.

I've visited quite a few book clubs for The Juliet Stories. There is one question asked every time, usually immediately, a variation of: "Is this story something that really happened to you?" How I answer the question probably depends on my mood, and I often feel rather weary as I try to explain my creative process. But even if I don't welcome the question, exactly, I don't disdain it. I've come to believe the question must tap into something fundamental within us, something held in common, as readers. That we come to a story looking for truth. We come looking for the connections between author and subject. We want to believe in the veracity of what's being told. (Maybe we want to be part of the story or become closer to it, by being witnesses rather than "mere" readers.)

The closer a story appears to be to autobiography, the more jarring it is to be told: this is fiction. We're not comfortable with something we suspect to be full of half-truths, which are also, of course, half-falsehoods. I find it very difficult to wrestle with these distinctions. I'd rather say, "None of this happened" than "Bits of this happened"; while the thought of saying "This all happened" makes my skin crawl. I've got no desire to be a memoirist, clearly.

But every story I've ever written has been inspired by a glimpse of something actual, whether it be a house I once lived in, or the memory of an emotion that washed over me in a specific situation, or an amulet from childhood, or by knowledge I've personally gained cooking or horseback riding or running. I get my ideas from life. But an idea isn't a story, an emotion isn't a story, a glimpse isn't a story. To make a story, I imagine what might have been if life were different. I seek alternative explanations for those things I can't explain. I go off the trail. I wonder. I make it up.

As a fiction writer, I'm not asking my readers to be witnesses, to paraphrase the conclusion of the essay cited above. I'm asking my readers to imagine.

Curious, though. What am I asking of readers here on the blog? This isn't fiction, obviously. This is it. Here, perhaps, I'm asking you to be witnesses.

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Yesterday at 9AM I wanted to write a post that listed in fine detail every damn thing I'd already accomplished since waking four hours previously; but I was too tired to do it, and instead went upstairs and fell into the oblivion of a nap. It will sound like bragging. Maybe it is. I don't mean it to be. I myself am astonished and only want to record it because I doubt I'll believe it years from now, the pace at which I'm currently pushing myself, wondering whether it's too much, whether I'll stumble, and badly. (Note: Kevin was working in Toronto yesterday, and usually shares half these duties.)

5:04 - Alarm. Brush teeth, dress.
5:11 - Daughter's alarm. Help her get ready for swimming.
5:19 - See daughter off with carpooling friend.
5:33 - In darkness, leave house for a run on snowy roads.
6:29 - Home after 10.2km (slow; muscles never warmed up in the cold).
6:33 - Dash out with whining dogs for walk, chilled.
6:47 - Feed dogs. Shower. Dress. Scarf toast with PB.
7:00 - Wake eldest son to watch dogs and be on alert for rising children. Leave for pool. Listen to news on the radio, blast the heat.
7:15 - Pick up daughter and friend at pool. Feed them bananas. Chat.
7:25 - Drop off friend.
7:35 - Home. Feed myself and daughter poached eggs on toast.
7:55 - See friends waiting for elder son to walk to school, run out and tell them go; he's sick. Call school to report his impending absence.
8:00 - Send daughter to bed.
8:03 - Wake small children. Dress smallest.
8:15 - Feed small children vanilla yogurt with cut-up pears. Empty dishwasher, begin filling again.
8:19 - Check lunch boxes, add desserts, make snack to put into smallest's coat pocket for field trip, as per instructions on form sent home by teachers, lost, and then after much searching, found. Start load of laundry. Wash beans for supper.
8:29 - Get small children into outdoor clothes. Not quickly enough.
8:37 - Wake eldest daughter. Drive small children to meet friends for their walk to school (they usually walk there).
8:47 - Wake eldest daughter again. Pack her school bag.
9:01 - Drive eldest daughter to her school (she usually walks there, too).
9:10 - Check on sick eldest son, returned to bed. Make him a cup of tea.
9:20 - Crate dogs. Nap.
9:50 - Woken by whining dogs. Get up. Feel grumpy. Get on with it.

1 comment:

  1. I like what the essayist says about how a poet invites the reader into her imaginative space, but with guest privileges only. The writer herself is always the creator, owner, and ultimate authority. Carrie, you are sharing a space with us, but you alone determine what to share. The next step is the reader’s.

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