Memoir and Morality
Can we prioritise personal responsibility in our writing while preserving the dignity of others?
Dear ones,
On Wednesday morning I embarked on an eight and a half hour coach journey up to Manchester to attend an event where two incredible authors would speak about the radical power of personal narrative. I had been looking forward to listening to Melissa Febos and Helen Mort in conversation for over a month and I spent most of the way there re-reading Body Work (which you can read more about here in my post The Plight of Writing) so that the words would be fresh in my mind when I arrived.
I had imagined sitting there – intensely present – soaking up the wisdom of these two women, marinating in their musings on writing and living and everything in between. What I hadn’t imagined was time ticking away whilst I ran around Manchester searching for the location of said event. By the time I finally found it the conversation had been in full swing for almost 45 minutes. I settled into a seat at the back of the room, sweaty and breathless, hoping I hadn’t missed most of it.
It turned out I had. By the time my heart rate had returned to its resting state it was more or less over. Fortunately, the tail end of the conversation and audience questions touched on some potent topics that I am still ruminating on. But since arriving home the following evening, I have become increasingly preoccupied with a question of my own:
How can we hold the tension between telling our version of the truth as honestly as possible and honouring the humanity of those whose stories are interwoven with our own?
It feels like an impossible task at times. I do believe that compressing the people we’ve known and loved onto the page almost always results in a loss of dimensionality. In some cases, people even become bound to the way they have been portrayed: reduced to a caricature of themselves. I feel more aware than ever that this is a responsibility that a writer mustn’t take lightly, which is the reason why I asked my ex-husband to read my memoir, in which he appears frequently.
Ever since he agreed to this a part of me wishes he hadn’t. I’ve been wondering whether the words I have chosen to give voice to what has been left unsaid between us will be too confronting, whether what I have presented as fact will cause friction. Sometimes it’s far easier to share certain chapters of your story with a stranger – or a friend who isn’t directly affected by them – than with someone you’ve already foisted so many other pieces of yourself upon. There is so much less at stake when you can confess your pain and then go your separate ways, or at least retreat into the background of each other’s lives while the wounds begin to heal.
I’m still not sure whether or not this man I’ve spent so much of my life with will appreciate my attempt to write him in a way that feels both honest and humane but either way I am ready to find out. There will undoubtedly be certain parts of the book that provoke a dichotomy between our beliefs, but I hope to remember that it is entirely possible for two truths to exist at once. When the time comes for a conversation on it all I will try my best to respect his perspective. If I can manage that perhaps it might even broaden my own.
That said, although we do have a responsibility to others, in writing the greatest responsibility we have is to ourselves. To write our lives is an act of liberation: when we name our deepest shame or claim our truest desires on the page it is a tangible movement towards freedom. But beneath this it is a route to internal intimacy, a means to meet ourselves anew. Why would we waste our time writing to slight others when every word we select has the potential to cultivate and clarify our sense of self. Telling our stories – in the singular style that only we can – requires us to be as tender as we are tenacious. If we want the version of ourselves we inscribe to be as vibrant and lifelike as possible these are two qualities we must draw on time and again.
If we aren’t careful our pursuit of the truth can become all-consuming. In moments it might even eclipse our proclivity for compassion. In Body Work, Melissa mentions letting the writer win, a practice that has given her the courage to delve into uncomfortable truths despite knowing that they might sometimes upset other people. Towards the end of the passage though it becomes evident that she has softened in her approach. She finishes by saying that: ‘Sometimes, it’s important to let the writer lose.’
Striking a balance between our ethics and the endeavour of writing can be incredibly difficult but I believe that we cannot underestimate the importance of doing so. In fact, I would say that this particular lesson is a blessing in disguise. Take a moment to consider this: how could becoming a more conscientious human being not enrich our ability to describe the ones we love – and even the ones we loathe – more authentically?
With Love,
Laura x
Beautiful and thought provoking as always. I've made the personal decision to write parts of my life that I've refused to articulate not to necessarily share publicly but as you say as an act of self love and liberation. For me, it's important to write so that I win because the primary focus is to give the wounded parts of me voice. If I was to rewrite for public consumption then I would rethink this. Thank you for another great post. 💗
So potent and provoking. I've been contemplating writing about the end of my marriage, but considering how my own retelling of my experience may be felt by others in my family has held me back. Not all of our stories need to be shared, I think but certainly there are parts that want to spread their leaves and grow into the light, to be heard and shared. Finding the balance in the sharing is delicate.