At one level, the fallibility of the writer tweaks truth. Truth is truth as I understand it at this moment. And the interpretation I make of that information is based on my thinking at this time. Tomorrow I may remember more, and that may affect my interpretation of the facts as I understand them.
This is truth as it is available to me. In addition, factors beyond my control may keep me from knowing all the facts--facts that might modify the truth. I appreciated Lynn Z. Bloom's comment that family mores restricted her pursuit of the truth: " I know that I cannot now or ever ask my parents about this Linda [her twin sister, deceased at birth] I have never met" (277). I have felt the same. Perhaps I should have pursued certain aspects of our family story before Mom died, but I would be violating family standards for privacy had I done so. And I would have made Mom think that I thought she was dying.
But what about what I do disclose? Do I use the names Mom recounted to me when I retell her stories, given that many involved cannot now give permission? As Bloom points out, some argue against pseudonyms, saying that the deception is a slippery slope that can move a text toward fiction. Others argue that the value of the narrative is worth the loss of detail. Am I willing to alienate the dead and some of the living in the interest of "truth" that probably wouldn't be damaged by a pseudonym or two (honestly disclosed as such, of course)?
What is the standard, then, for leaving out information? Silence and selectivity are rhetorical choices, Anne Ruggle Gere points out (see my "Silence" posting), but they can also be deceptive if employed unethically. If I characterize someone, must I include warts and all--even though the details may be of marginal relevance to the greater point?
What if my memory conflicts with others'? Must I defer to others? Acknowledge others? Or can my tale be my truth as I remember it? Bloom argues that creative nonfiction should not be compromised by either censorship or consensus (279). On the other hand, she acknowledges that ethical sensibilities may cause writers to compromise, in order to prevent betrayal of damaging secrets, for example. I noted that more than one author in the special issue in which Bloom's article appears wondered what their parents would think if they read what was being written about them.
That's another angle on truth. Does motive matter? Must the story have a purpose in order to be told, especially if the truth will have a potential negative impact on some. As a writer, I might say yes, because the writing is a value in itself. But would I feel the same way if others included me in their stories, knowing only the fragment of me that they encountered? In my memoir draft I write about our neighbors in the palliative care unit--a large family agonizing as their mother battled with the final stages of pancreatic cancer. What if the daughter from that family wrote about me--the woman who was often gone from the dying woman's bedside next door? She wouldn't know that I was juggling a full-time job, Medicare/Medicaid matters, funeral preparations, nursing home vultures trying to usurp my Mom's room, exhaustion, concerns for my family and my pet. She wouldn't know that I was taking breaks to walk with my pet in order to steel myself to keep calm with my mom who had been my house mate and best friend for 29 years.
When I'm tempted to share too much I need to remember what truths I don't know, and when I write, I need to recall the power of writing. It's never harmless, and it's never neutral.
Works Cited
Bloom, Lynn Z. "Living to Tell the Tale: The Complicated Ethics of Creative Nonfiction." College English 65.3 (2003): 276-289.
Gere, Anne Ruggles. "Revealing Silence: Rethinking Personal Writing." College Composition and Communication 53.2 (2001): 203-223.
