There is now less space between fiction and non-fiction in my mind. These were once completely separate shelves, which had clear distinctions that didn’t intersect, yet that divide seems, at this point, for me, both less accurate and less important, though this change has happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, in a gradual coalescing of categories. Even though the time that I’ve spent reading fiction has always felt more serious—it is more vital, more human, more fundamental to life, more salubrious, more relevant, more realistic—this literary hierarchy is less important to me, now that all the commonplace distinctions have begun to fade.
For an accurate representation of reality, for an interpretation of the world, for the facts about life, I had previously believed that fiction provided the more practical lessons. A story that’s labeled fiction might incidentally invent some surface facts—character names, locations, a plot—but the story only emerges if its roots, the more fundamental aspects of life, the actual reason that you turn the pages, has a texture that’s genuine. That texture is a lot more relevant for learning about the world, or even about a specific event, than the surface facts found in most non-fiction books. And if you want to inhabit a character, to comprehend the nuances of life, then you need the subtly and potency of fiction, I’ve always claimed, rather than the artificial constraints of non-fiction, which are limited to the observable, the provable, the confirmed. To read a few history books about the Napoleonic Wars is to learn a bit, it is to gather some facts, perhaps inch toward an understanding of the times, but to read War and Peace is to inhabit the actual spirit of the age and to discern more about the character of those years, and that had always seemed, to me at least, to reveal more truths.
But whether a story is factually true, in the admissible in court version of the term, isn’t really necessary if you seek narrative, if your objective is to locate an original voice on the page that reveals a unique and provocative and vibrant sensibility, which is what, I don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn, I am desperate to find in writers. In this search the distinction between fiction and non-fiction starts to collapse—it is the words on the page, and whether they present a sensitivity to experience, that captures my attention. When I read a page of prose, I want to feel what’s human, the presence of a writer that I haven’t encountered before, someone with an individual, striking voice, that’s what I find thrilling, and whether that person writes as a novelist or journalist or historian or essayist no longer seems that relevant.
Every few years there’s some humorous outrage about the most recent person to lie in a memoir. A supposedly factual tale contains distorted stories, juxtaposed but false memories, some stretching of events. Yet the ensuing controversy, in the anger of readers, in the public indignation, is nothing less than perplexing to me. If I read a memoir, I am drawn to the person, I want to inhabit a sensibility, to absorb a perspective, and how this person decides to present themselves is what I find interesting—not whether they’ve selected actual facts. The same principle applies to a campfire story: how you tell the story is much more important than what you tell.
Although I do find it notable how literary fabrications changes over time. Society shifts, of course, and what’s desired changes, too, resulting in a change in the mask that people want to present. In previous centuries, the stretched truth involved a wealthy childhood, or a more noble family than what matched the actual record, with childhood misfortune the shameful secret; yet the most recent scandals in memoir-land involve writers who invent deprivation, suffering, and poverty, even though the concealed record has a more comfortably prosaic upbringing. Whether the former or the latter is factual seems a lot less interesting than the decision of selection. Unless you happen to be on a jury, it is how the story is told, what a writer decides to tell, rather than the empirical nature of the tale, that counts. Besides, don’t readers already know the timeworn admonition to trust autobiography only when it reveals something disgraceful?
When I write, I do always strive to write honestly, to capture the sensations that arise in my mind, though my sentences appear, to me at least, as mere flashes that vanish as quick as they appear. What’s true for me on Monday isn’t and shouldn’t be assumed to be true on Tuesday. Because I have different selves, my writing has a tendency to shift, too, depending on the day, depending on the hour, depending on my mood. Some readers might label this as fickle, needlessly ambiguous, or insufficiently confident—though it feels pretty much like the opposite to me. If you are faithful to your perceptions, and truly examine your motivations at the moment when your pen touches the page, then you’ll notice that every sensation is fleeting. At its best, if I’m able to fully concentrate and remain faithful in my selection of the right words, then my writing is utterly real, utterly true, utterly personal, but just for a moment, and probably false once I reach the end of the sentence.
Nobody is surprised to learn that the joke that comes after a sip of wine is different from the joke that comes at the bottom of the bottle, even though, however disappointing it may be, the storyteller is the same. Another analogy might be an album that has some faster and some slower tracks—with the musicians the same despite the changes in melody. Sometimes my writing is whimsical, sometimes it is polemical, occasionally it is philosophical, but it is always, in the end, still me.
And that’s what I seek as a reader. A voice. A sensibility. A spirit that lifts from the page. It is rare, difficult to describe, and I wouldn’t claim that I achieve it myself, though that’s certainly the goal. A good writer can ramble on about any subject—whether that’s history, a personal narrative, some banal political gossip, or a simple description—and you want to keep reading, because, in the end, it isn’t really about any particular subject, but about that sensibility. A good relationship follows the same principle, as there’s no need for all the usual accouterments of romance, because you don’t require the best restaurants, nor the ideal vacation spot, if you’re with the right person—because the right person in a bad location is obviously better than the wrong person in a good location. And a writer that speaks directly to you, regardless of what subject they select, regardless of what surface facts they present, provides an experience that I would call true.
Yes, for me it’s the writer’s voice that either appeals or not. And for the ones I do like, the subjects may range and jump from fiction to non-fiction, and even the tone and mood may vary, but beneath it all is the writer’s voice. The writer’s unique essence. Like a Bukowski poem, for example. I know that voice. But developing one’s own unique voice…therein lies the challenge.
This rings up off the page, Charles, and it rings TRUE. War and Peace is better than all the 1812 facts you can find. And this: “If I read a memoir, I am drawn to the person ... and how this person decides to present themselves is what I find interesting—not whether they’ve selected actual facts.”
It’s a much more pithy expression of what I was trying to say in a few pieces (Wordsmoke and On a train in upstate NY: “I aim for fiction, and sometimes fall short, lacking imagination, constrained to my one body and definitely not zen-like enough.”)
Let’s normalise fictionalised memoir - since the best fiction reads autobiographically anyway.
🎯 You nailed it.