A Memoir is not fiction!
James Frey made himself a larger-than-life member of a group he never belonged to. Timothy Barrus turned himself into Nasdijj, the Navajo who never was. It’s a good bet that many other writers of alleged memoirs have embellished their lives or made up lives they never lived. Perhaps they think they can inflate their importance by bamboozling their readers. Perhaps they think that the bigger the hole they claim to have dug themselves out of, the more impressed their readers will be. Perhaps they think their writing isn’t compelling enough to sell otherwise. Perhaps they are just playing games with us.
Or perhaps they simply want to be cited in the sequel to Henry Frankfurt’s 2005 book, On Bullshit. One of the distinctions Frankfurt draws between lies and bullshit is that we think we can tell the difference. We are willing to overlook the bullshit, because it is benign and, after all, everyone does it. In fact, isn’t that something like the excuse that Frey and his publisher gave for their actions. "What’s the big deal?" they asked, as if the "positive message" and the "uplifting spirituality" of the lies more than compensated for the deceit. Everyone knows that a memoir spins its web around meaning, not facts, right? Isn’t it the subjective truth that matters, not the honest truth?
To some extent, the answer is yes, but only to some extent. A memoir by definition is a subjective reflection on some meaningful part of the writer’s life. Very few memoir writers claim that it is "just the facts, ma’am." If you want "just the facts," you can turn to a biography or an obituary. A memoir is a selective look at a time or a theme in the author’s life that offers some kind of meaning to the reader. It’s "the way I remember it," not "the way it happened in all the bloody details."
A memoir is not a fantasy, however.
What gives a memoir its power is its connection to the truth. The writer may change a name or a place in order to protect someone’s privacy or forestall a legal mess. In fact, most memoir writers include disclaimers that acknowledge they did precisely that. Frey’s book now includes a statement to that effect. But adding the disclaimer after he’s been busted hardly makes up for the earlier deceit. It’s not even good damage control.
A reader needs to trust that a memoir is true. Once that trust has been lost, it’s a lot more difficult to win it back again. No one will ever again believe James Frey or Nasdijj. But what about all the memoir writers who offer honest memoirs? Will they suffer because one or two famous writers got caught cooking the book? The more remarkable the writer’s lfe, the heavier the burden the writer must bear. Should we now expect writers to document their memoirs with footnotes and cross-references? Will the entire genre of memoir fall out of favor simply because a few dishonest writers didn’t respect their readers enough to write with respect for the truth?
In the memoir classes that Peggy Lang and I teach through our sister company, Silver Threads, the question of honesty always comes up. We tell our students that a writer who invents the past is not writing a memoir. Why should they even care now that they can see the financial rewards of lying? After all, A Million Little Pieces hasn’t exactly fallen off the charts since it was exposed. Maybe we should charge so much if we help you tell the truth but so much more if we help you lie about it.
I don’t suppose this means our students will stop dreaming about getting on Oprah, either.
Or perhaps they simply want to be cited in the sequel to Henry Frankfurt’s 2005 book, On Bullshit. One of the distinctions Frankfurt draws between lies and bullshit is that we think we can tell the difference. We are willing to overlook the bullshit, because it is benign and, after all, everyone does it. In fact, isn’t that something like the excuse that Frey and his publisher gave for their actions. "What’s the big deal?" they asked, as if the "positive message" and the "uplifting spirituality" of the lies more than compensated for the deceit. Everyone knows that a memoir spins its web around meaning, not facts, right? Isn’t it the subjective truth that matters, not the honest truth?
To some extent, the answer is yes, but only to some extent. A memoir by definition is a subjective reflection on some meaningful part of the writer’s life. Very few memoir writers claim that it is "just the facts, ma’am." If you want "just the facts," you can turn to a biography or an obituary. A memoir is a selective look at a time or a theme in the author’s life that offers some kind of meaning to the reader. It’s "the way I remember it," not "the way it happened in all the bloody details."
A memoir is not a fantasy, however.
What gives a memoir its power is its connection to the truth. The writer may change a name or a place in order to protect someone’s privacy or forestall a legal mess. In fact, most memoir writers include disclaimers that acknowledge they did precisely that. Frey’s book now includes a statement to that effect. But adding the disclaimer after he’s been busted hardly makes up for the earlier deceit. It’s not even good damage control.
A reader needs to trust that a memoir is true. Once that trust has been lost, it’s a lot more difficult to win it back again. No one will ever again believe James Frey or Nasdijj. But what about all the memoir writers who offer honest memoirs? Will they suffer because one or two famous writers got caught cooking the book? The more remarkable the writer’s lfe, the heavier the burden the writer must bear. Should we now expect writers to document their memoirs with footnotes and cross-references? Will the entire genre of memoir fall out of favor simply because a few dishonest writers didn’t respect their readers enough to write with respect for the truth?
In the memoir classes that Peggy Lang and I teach through our sister company, Silver Threads, the question of honesty always comes up. We tell our students that a writer who invents the past is not writing a memoir. Why should they even care now that they can see the financial rewards of lying? After all, A Million Little Pieces hasn’t exactly fallen off the charts since it was exposed. Maybe we should charge so much if we help you tell the truth but so much more if we help you lie about it.
I don’t suppose this means our students will stop dreaming about getting on Oprah, either.
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