Hallie in UNLEARN mode #amwriting

HALLIE EPHRON: I’ve been revving up for the writing I proposed to do in the coming year as part of my tenure as my library’s writer-in-residence. (Thank you to the Milton Public Library and to an endowment from Dr. Herb Voigt.)

My goal is to take a detour from writing mystery novels and make sense out of all of the personal writing I’ve done ever since... since the days way back when I started writing about why, despite growing up in a family of writers, I was NOT one.

None of those early essays were published. I knew next to nothing about writing, and less than nothing about pitching and selling my work. But I was smart enough to know that today’s crap is tomorrow’s compost, so I saved it. All of it. Every version of all of it.

My career writing personal essays went nowhere but, tiring of my day job teaching, I found work as a technical writer. It paid. And I learned fast that in the world of technical documents (user manuals, field service guides, …), clarity and brevity are king. Short words (“use”) trump fancy ones (“utilize”). Accuracy matters, and every step and detail needs to be checked.

I was good at it. After all those years teaching, I knew how to ask, “Who’s going to read this and what are they likely to be looking for?” I was under no illusion that my readers expected to be entertained. Success was measured by how few, not how many pages they turned before closing the book.

When I started writing fiction, everything I’d learned as a technical writer went out the window. Fiction readers seek entertainment, not information. Plots unfold in scenes. A character or setting might be a complete invention, or inspired by a real person or place, altered and embellished to fit the plot. (That’s why Lawrence Block titled his book on writing fiction Telling Lies for Fun and Profit.)

The hardest thing for me to learn was viewpoint. I had to remind myself repeatedly that the story had to be narrated by one character at a time--not an omniscient narrator, and not me/the author. Fortunately my pals in my writer’s critique group were merciless, and maybe it helped that I finally wrote KILL THE AUTHOR/KILL THE NARRATOR on a yellow sticky and pasted it to my computer monitor. 

Writing a personal essay is, as Dorothy said when she arrived in the Emerald city, a “horse of a different color,” and once again I find myself having to unlearn. I’ll be digging up memories in search of truths. Personal truths. And already I’m wondering if I’m up to the task.

When I tied my sister’s tricycle to my two-wheeler, was it because she asked me to help her “go fast” (as I think) or did I talk her into it (as she insists)? And what about the horror chagrin I felt when she flew off her trike and landed face first on the sidewalk. I recall it vividly. But did my dad really come charging out of the house raging and carry her into the house? Did I get spanked? Did she get to have ice cream propped up in bed, or did that happen after she had her tonsils out? Does it matter? Is it enough for me to write my own version of what I think happened and make it sound (to the reader) and feel (to me) authentic, and in the process to find meaning?

What do you think? In personal essays, is it ok to make stuff up, because where does one get all the sights and smells and dialogue that bring a past experience vividly to life? Is all forgiven if there’s a personal truth nestled among the lies and embellishments, or is there some higher standard?