WRITING MEMOIR
I Lived That Story, So I Get to Tell It
I paid those dues, you didn’t
“Lies!!!” she hissed at me, leaning forward, her beautiful face distorted. “It’s all lies! You’re a fraud.” The look in her eyes and the ugly tone of her voice were things I’d never seen before, never dreamed I’d ever see. My baby, the light of my life ever since she was born.
I was stunned into silence.
But it’s just as well — there’s no way to defend yourself from that kind of personal attack, after all. You only look pitiful and defensive. It’s so far beyond reality that there’s no adequate response.
But this is the downside of writing memoir — people tend to believe that their version of events is the only one, and anything else is a lie. Even if they lived their lives alongside you, they often remember things differently. They seem to assume they know the real story chapter and verse, forgetting that they weren’t privy to every conversation, there were things they don’t know; they didn’t feel the same feelings.
At such a time, it’s hard to remember that their memories and experiences are valid, too. But they are, and I give her that. People remember things the way they need to.
