Saturday, December 19, 2009

(See where we were.)


We all have our stories to tell. But that's just it, isn't it? They're stories. They're our version of the events, a weird blend of nonfiction and fiction. What we saw, what we remember, what we were feeling when it happened. Our version of the story is what we own. It's not all "facts be damned" or made-up lies, but it's not history either.

When I write about things in my past, my stories, I'm giving you my memoir, not my autobiography. There aren't any endnotes, there was no fact checker. It's my version: right or (probably at least a little bit) wrong. I try to tell the truth, but I am sure I am coloring it with other things: emotions, other stories that I've mixed up in there, new perspective now. I'm not crosschecking or interviewing other participants or getting the whole story; I'm just telling mine. Perhaps it's a bit selfish, but it's what I have for now.

There's a great story in the afterward of my copy of "Autobiography of a Face" (or maybe in "Truth and Beauty" -- either way, both very good books) where Lucy Grealy was at a book signing and someone told her how amazing it is that she remembers all those details from when she was a child. They asked her how she could remember all of that and she replied, "I didn't remember it, I wrote it. I'm a writer." Exactly.


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