Truth and Memoir and Poetry

What is memoir? A hot, growing genre? An autobiography with less ego & more focus? A word that spurs debates over pronunciation, let alone agreeing on any unified definition or purpose? Maybe one or two of those.

Lately a lot of discussion has been focused on Truth (big T generally, occasionally little t) in memoir. Some people have made up entire sections of their lives, some have embellished here & there; both groups have drawn criticism which has, in turn, drawn criticism. I want to look at some of the reasons behind the criticisms of those who hold Truth to be paramount to memoir, and even poetry (and maybe even fiction).

Firstly, memoir is a hot, growing genre. If only for all the fire it’s drawn lately. People sharing their life stories of endurance, tragedy, perseverance, spirituality, affirmation, etc., are competing for space in the bookstores. So if I have survived life with abusive parents worshipping Satan during an earthquake, and you just throw all that into your book, you’re elbowing me out of my space on the shelf. A gesture that seems all the more vicious if you never were in the earthquake. Truth is a marketable concern, and memoir has been marketed as entertaining, accessible Truth.

Another aspect of this might be divergent notions of authenticity. This drives the argument in two primary ways, because authenticity depends on perspective and preconception as well as authority. We sometimes hear of “authentic” Mexico ore Ireland contrasted to Tourist Mexico or Ireland. To the Mexicans or Irish working in the tourist trade, are their lives less authentically Irish? Or more? If I skip the major tourist destinations, is my trip more real? Each reader will value one over the other depending on how much they want to challenge their own awareness of the place and experience.

In addition to being a self-affirming process of identifying key moments and events in one’s life by finding ways to communicate the experiences to another person, memoir is also about negotiating and trading realities. As communities have been growing more distanced and children aren’t left to their own devices to socialize (for better and worse), memoir helps to fill a gap, often for both the reader & the writer. The intimacy of the page contributes beautifully to the experience. TV & radio will always have a filter, but the page can allow a reader quick access to the author’s thoughts and emotional states.
If the reader wants to sympathize, s/he will want all truth and can remain distanced: “Oh, how horrible for him…” The concern is probably rooted internally, but the energy of the emotion is directed outwards.

If the reader is reading for empathy, then s/he will want detail of the experience and get lost within it: “How horrible!” The concern is in identifying with the experience and the energy is very internalized and as introspective as it is analytical of the writing. The empathizer is in the position to be changed through the experience of reading. If that change is then integrated in the ego, then that change becomes the truth and the writing a mere catalyst. The feelings of betrayal are lessened because something was gained.
The sympathizer is more vulnerable. His/her experience is directed outward - it’s an experience that adds to one’s conception of the world (as opposed to the empathizer’s conception of self). To have been “lied” to makes the sympathizer feel foolish & even mocked. There is no personal change on which to fall back on; the reading experience and knowledge garnered becomes tainted.

So, if all that is true (I doubt that it’s True), I propose a quick summary:

Reading is an intimate experience.
Publishing of Memoir is a business, concerned with making money (both for the publisher and the author).
Readers are paying publishers for a go at an author. Currency is exchanged for intimacy and catharsis (release). Some are upset to find they weren’t with the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold. Others know only that their world was rocked and could care less if she was faking.

So, what’s the problem? Truth can keep the genre proprietary in that one must have lived an experience in order to write about it & call it memoir. Truth (big T, not just the beginning of a sentence) is taking the form of authenticity and accountability in order to help bolster people’s awareness of the world (ideally). What I see as the problem in this is that by using Truth for these purposes and with these definitions/goals, is that it’s risking the loss of Art to protect against artifice. Art is communication, not always intelligible, but communication. Artifice is pretence with no message – all sound, no fury – the communication is not a dialogue nor a negotiation, and therefore, not really communicating (unless on an ironic level, which could make it art again, unless that’s artifice too, in which case…). A genre that builds itself on Truth opens the doors for charlatans. When you proffer Truth, you’re closing the door on the communicative aspect of Art and leaving yourself very vulnerable these deceivers. There’s no real authority set in place. It’s been on the honor system for so long, but all the communications have been focused on either the communicative acts of memoir (how to best organize and develop) and effects (benefits for writers and readers). Truth is a late-comer (as a big T, as an authoritative T, as an universal T), and it’s Tyrannical.

I’m really tempted to not lose any sleep over the whole matter. Memoir can slip back into obscurity and vanity presses and I’ll feel disappointment for my friends who had good stories and good writing to mix into the genre, but I won’t beat my chest and wail.

Unfortunately, I have been losing sleep. For about six months now. Just after Ted Kooser, our poet laureate, spoke with Carol Bly on the topic of Truth in Poetry and Memoir. Their consensus seemed to be that the big T belongs there and other opinions are either splitting hairs, intentionally trying to deceive others for personal gain, or just the arrogance of youth. I’ve been Tossing ever since.

I have always viewed poetry as an art. I think that knowing about the life and background of a poet can offer good insight and is certainly interesting, but that knowledge is not the art, nor necessary to appreciate the art. The root & core of the experience should be from the piece, and how it causes the spaces between your internal organs to swell with your pupils. Truth and authenticity (and the hierarchical structures in tow) can mean reading the poet, not the poems. The Yasusada hoax (the fake Hiroshima survivor) occurred because of people buying the poet. It didn’t garner attention through its imagery and rhythm. People wanted a piece of history (or a piece by a piece of history). The worth of the art was dependent upon the worth of the poet’s biography. Buying the author is like setting up a collection. The kids who never took their toys out of the original packaging like to buy the author. I propose a double-blind approach to Truth, if we must have it, in which authors’ bios and poems are presented separately and the public makes its choices based on the work. It there’s accountability, it should be on both sides.

The proprietary issue comes into play then too. As an artist, it’s nice to think that I can write about what I want to write about; in the manner that I think will affect my audience. To do that, I call on my imagination and my empathy to find meaningful mediums. Truth would make those mediums proprietary. Unless it’s obviously fanciful or in another voice, you will have had to have walked through the woods, and come upon a fork in the road. And your choice better damn well have made all the difference. Otherwise you’re stealing the poem from those who’ve had loads of difference from their fork choices. Ok, that was a might bit asinine, but I’m left with a lot of questions when Truth comes marching into Poetry and I always thought it was Art. What are the criteria for authenticity? If I’m writing about my 6th Christmas, did Santa forget what I really wanted, or did my parents? If WCW hated chickens, does that information change his poem? Are there degrees of authenticity? Should they all be accounted for? Where is the place of ambiguity in the realm of Truth?

For my money, I’m with Keats: “ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ - that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” Unless it turns out he was only looking at a cheap knock-off of an urn, in which case he made my life a lie.

Ninth Letter published out of University of Illinois
Literary journal of poetry, fiction and non-fiction (creative essay mainly). It also dedicates space to art projects and talking discussion of the art. Throughout, stories and poems are laid out over different sketches, paintings, photographs and designs. This is one of the first aspects that I think makes 9 a good coffee table journal. It's visually intriguing. Nothing too shocking or abrasive, so as to intimidate your dinner guests while you have a quickie in the kitchen. Nor so bland as to leave your guests carving tribal designs in each others arms as a way to transcend their boredom.
The actual writing is also nice. Nothing to rave about. Nothing to condemn. It's nice. Fitful moments did include an end note explaining "The preceding stories [were] part of a collection of 'dream' stories..." It was also disappointing that the artist descriptions of their work actually detracted from the images they were able to produce. It seems that some artists need to have interesting explanations to validate the experience for any audience. Others should make a bunch of prints and walk away. Or, better yet, hire a poet to create an interesting explanation for them.
The poetry has some nice images, thoughts and narratives. "The Upstairs Cow" by Matthew Gavin Frank was a nice quasi-surreal, mostly post-modern piece: "But this long is all for the sake of the father. The cow is still / a cow (not a fact). She won't come to the family."
A series of Newtonian Girl poems by Stefi Weisburd showed some whimsy and enough character insight that although the premise seemed a little stretched, there was enough emotional impetus to keep interest in the next of the series.
Other poems were nice, but lacked tightness. They were more concerned with stream of consciousness and being unique that I feel they lose the urgency that consideration of craft brings. I'm not a big fan of formalism, but nor do I feel that not taking on a particular form means that a poem should give secondary consideration to imagery or sound.
Fiction had the surrealistic impoverishment piece, the translation piece and the teacher/affair piece. Your mom could read these, but you may want to keep grandpa occupied with the Upstairs Cow. You've read most of the pieces before. They're nice pieces and it's not likely to kill you to read them again.
To be commended- the collaboration between the editors and the UI arts dept. It is visually impressive. Not always necessarily meant to mesh directly, the photos, sketches, oils and computer graphics are definitely interesting. I read some of the stories for the simple pleasure of having the photo in my peripheral vision. It's inspiring that the literary and the arts are spending time together to create this.
So, the Ninth Letter is great coffee table reader. It's a page flipper rather than a turner. It's visually impressive, even (briefly) captivating at times. The poetry has it's high points and doesn't sink too low. The prose pieces seem a little typecasted, but they play their parts without too much stammering. So, one copy will look great, but until people start to comment on how old your copy is, I wouldn't bother rushing out to get a new edition hot off the press.