Unpacking Bits Of Truth
I swear to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth.
You might have noticed I left out the Whole Truth.
The whole truth is near impossible to tell. I could write at least twenty different versions of the story of my life so far, each one of them very different, each one true. If I were to try to get the whole truth into one essay, the narration would be all over the place. It would be chaotic and confusing and I imagine readers would simply give up at some point.
And so, when writing, talking and even thinking about my life, I focus on a single narrative. When I’m feeling complex, a single narrative with some subplots woven in. The whole truth not denied as much as edited for clarity. There’s no shame in curating a narrative. I’m sure everyone does that. We have to, in a way — to process events. It helps to have things in a neat succession; causes and effects, actions and reactions, a thrilling lift-hill leading up to the plummeting drops of the roller-coaster that used to be your life.
That narrative truth, the story I tell myself about myself, ends up being the person I think I am. I’ve reduced (although that word reads much harsher than I feel about it) myself to a character with an arc that’s going…somewhere, I hope? Friends, loved ones and even complete strangers have helped me curate my narrative truth, but mostly I did it myself by deciding which experiences, which actions and which reactions in my life have been the most important to me.
That leaves a lot of me on the cutting room floor. Things that felt like one-off anomalies, not consistent with the person I think I am. Or maybe just not important enough to impact my narrative — yes, that one meatless meal was delicious, but it hasn’t turned me into a vegan, so I remain the sort of person who orders steak medium rare, “every time” I go to a restaurant.
But what if it was? What if the things I cut out of me, were things I deemed really important? Alternate reality me could have started ordering vegan every time she went out. Phasing meat out of her diet…she’d probably weigh a whole lot less, and meat isn’t cheap so there’s more money for her to spend. I know me, I’m vain, I’d be buying clothing. Nice clothing, brand names. Follow, maybe not fashion, but certainly style.
I said I could write at least twenty different stories of my life. There’s at least twenty different versions of me. And more that I could see, had I just made a different choice at certain points. Just a slight shift of priority is all it needs.
Angel recently told me I couldn’t possibly draw on myself for every character I wrote. I’m sure that wasn’t intended as the part of our conversation my mind was supposed to fixate on…but I’ve been thinking about it ever since.
I won’t sit here and claim that I don’t mix in things from other people, because I do. But at the same time, every character I’ve written has been build from my discarded truths. That stylish vegan is me. Or rather, the me I have chosen not to be. I get a bit of a kick out of buying “exclusively” at garage sales and flea markets. But I know that feeling when, on the rare occasion I see that one dress in a store, and I have to have it, and I pay full price. I have experienced a bit of a kick when I’m wearing that full price dress and I notice people looking. That’s a true thing about me — not important enough to make it into my narrative truth, but still true.
“Write what you know” right? I know myself.
Here’s another bit of truth. I am stuck on what I think of as my serious writing projects. I am afraid to finish it. And that is because, before I started rambling in this blog post, I was vaguely aware of the discarded truth mechanic of character building I have. It is absolutely great for short stories, where I can get away with simply leaving the impression of a fully fleshed out character. But a whole novel? In the character driven style I’ve cultivated? I’m afraid that it is blatantly obvious half way through that they are, deep down, all the same person. I’m afraid I’m just not interesting enough to carry an ensemble cast. I’m afraid that if I start mixing in more of other people, the characters will end up reading less truthful; less real. I don’t know other people the way I know myself.
I really don’t want to start thinking of myself as a person who is afraid.
So. Now that I’ve identified and acknowledged these bits of truth, it’s time for me to cut that shit out, discard it as not important and finish a damned novel already.
