Writing Truth in Reverse
By Brunonia Barry | February 12, 2015 |
Photo credit: Pierre at theunicyclist.com
Writing the truth has always been a challenge for me. In college, I started out as a journalism major, but it was strongly suggested that I transfer into the fiction department as quickly as possible. Let’s just say I have a tendency to embellish that wiser minds quickly realized would make journalism a poor career choice.
So I became a fiction writer, and I’ve never been happier. But recently I was asked by friends to write a nonfiction piece describing an incident that reflects the emotional impact of a tragedy I’ve tried hard to erase from memory. Just the thought of the project made me sweat.
Several of us are writers, with various memories of that time. Our stories will be as different as our emotional responses were, which is exactly what they wanted. The assignment seemed simple enough: Detail the times, the event, and a random memory that is somehow connected. Something true.
They had me until those last two words: something true.
I had great ambivalence about the project. Simultaneous and contradictory emotions pulled in equal and opposite directions and kept me up at night. But, because the cause was a good one, and since it would put me back in touch with old friends, I reluctantly said yes. And then I had a full-on panic attack.
The more I tried to begin, the more ambivalence I felt about the subject matter. For me, it was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. In the end, the truth was some place in between, in the seemingly random and mundane details of memory, which were the only memories I was able to summon.
My notes are skeletal at best, but here’s what I’ve got so far:
It was the ‘80s, and I was living in LA’s Laurel Canyon. Nightlife was just down the hill on Sunset: The Whiskey, the Roxy. It was the proverbial “sex and drugs and rock and roll” lifestyle. Anything was possible. By day, I worked at a sound-stage facility where anything possible was actually happening: from MTV videos, features, sitcoms, to porn and cartoons. Every Monday night I met with Bob McKee and nine other writers in his development group to workshop our screenplays.
My housemate, Russell, had just come out of the closet and was enjoying his equivalent of the same wild and happy life. I was renting the downstairs of his canyon home, with its hazy view of the distant downtown skyline, the smell of eucalyptus, and the night howls of coyotes. We shared a kitchen and a deck. It was during that time that I met the man I would marry. Eventually, Gary and I moved to a bungalow in the hills of Los Feliz. It was indeed the best of times.
And then something happened. Russell was murdered. Part hate crime, part lover’s quarrel, part revenge killing. All of the above were true. Or none of them were. We never really found out the real truth of what happened that day, never had the kind of closure such an event demands. What we did know was that Russell was beaten to death by the man who took my place in his house.
[pullquote]Russell was murdered. Part hate crime, part lover’s quarrel, part revenge killing. All of the above were true. Or none of them were. We never really found out the real truth of what happened that day, never had the kind of closure such an event demands.[/pullquote]
The best of times quickly changed to the worst.
Or so I always thought. But, as I look back on it now, I realize that they didn’t. Not entirely. What I thought was one way or the other was actually both. I was simultaneously as happy as I’d ever been and as sad.
So, for the assignment, I had to find a memory that illustrated both. The only thing I remembered at first was the tremendous guilt I felt for moving out of the house. If I’d stayed, if I hadn’t moved on to my happy life, would Russell be alive? That was a memory of sorts, but it was a memory of an emotion, not an incident. And what I needed was an incident that demonstrated that emotion.
I can conjure only three clear incidents from the days after Russell died:
- Four friends sitting in a booth at Lucy’s El Adobe after the burial, not invited to the family’s gathering, instead sharing a pitcher of margaritas and not speaking to each other at all. Someone’s watch was on the table. It was 3 PM.
- Walking up the hill from my new house to the Griffith Park Observatory, carrying an aluminum lawn chair that Russell and I had bought together for our deck, and I’d inherited when I moved out. Sitting on the lawn in front of the observatory, looking at the lard colored sky, the haze that, up until that moment, I had always refused to acknowledge as smog. Twisting a previously broken ankle on my way back down the hill.
- Driving a friend’s old broken down Karmann Ghia that would only go in reverse all the way from the studio where we worked in Hollywood to her apartment in Santa Monica. A long drive on surface streets at any time but longer still when you can only move in reverse. We laughed, we cried, we almost got arrested.
I’m writing about the car. Partly because it’s more active. That there is dialogue and movement is helpful, but, more importantly, this memory reveals the truth of my experience. I was the one who had the crazy idea that we should back up all the way to Santa Monica instead of simply having the car towed. “We can do this!” I kept saying, over and over. This epic journey took us in reverse down Santa Monica Blvd., past the street that led to the house in Laurel Canyon, through the area they called Boys Town, near the clubs we’d all frequented, and close to my Monday night workshops in Westwood. As if by backing up, we could reverse it all. It was a difficult thing to do, and it took almost all day. I never saw that car again. I remember my friend telling me it wasn’t worth fixing.
I haven’t yet finished the piece. But I’ll make the deadline and see my old friends again. And maybe, after we all read our “true” memories, we’ll all finally have closure, which I realize now was the whole point of this exercise, this writer’s prompt.
Choosing this memory revealed something about my writing that I hadn’t realized. In one way or another, the theme of going back to go forward runs through all my fiction. I wonder if that will change.
Whether it’s fiction of nonfiction, how do you discover the truth in your writing? Is there a theme from your own life that runs through your work?
Brunonia Barry is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The Lace Reader, The Map of True Places, and The Fifth Petal, chosen #1 of Strand Magazine’s Top 25 Books of 2017. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages and has been an Amazon Best of the Month and a People Magazine Pick. Barry was the first American author to win the International Women’s Fiction Festival’s Baccante Award and was a past recipient of Ragdale Artists’ Colony’s Strnad Invitational Fellowship as well as the winner of New England Book Festival’s award for Best Fiction. Her reviews and articles on writing have appeared in The London Times, The Washington Post, and The Huffington Post. Brunonia served as chairperson of the Salem Athenaeum’s Writers’ Committee, as Executive Director of the Salem Literary Festival, and as a member of Grub Street’s Development Committee. She lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her husband, Gary Ward, and their dog, Angel.
Brunonia–
The French have a saying: step backwards, the better to move forward (or something like that). It seems to fit what you and your friends are trying to do.
As for your question–how do I find the truth in my writing–I think it mostly has to do with overcoming my own cleverness. Not intelligence, cleverness. I’m very good at devising work-arounds in my novels, strategies for detouring my way over, under or around the truth–that is, places that don’t work and need serious re-writing. To avoid the hard job, I come up with an easy solution that allows me to keep what I like–except a very annoying little voice won’t stop telling I’m missing the point. That’s why I’m so grateful for editors: they tell me “The voice is right, stop being stupid-clever, and get to work.”
Barry, I really like the idea of overcoming your own cleverness to get to the truth. I’m not sure I’m as clever, but I do find ways to write around what would be most difficult, then having to go back to those exact spots to rework over and over. I’ll pay attention next time that happens.
I find it–or create it–in the exact middle of my books. That’s the point of illumination for me.
Thanks, James. The middle is where truth starts to emerge for me as well, but it’s quite murky there, so sometimes it’s difficult.
Oh, what a memory to return to. What if, what if? I am sorry that your friend died such a violent death. I presume the killer was caught and punished. And I am glad too, that you were not caught in the crossfire, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You survived.
How do I find the truth? I discover it on the page. Sometimes I know it, but a lot of times, it is only through writing that I am able to synthesize a cohesive picture. It is how I process the world. I recently worked on a little memoir for kids … and I remember how personal it got from first draft to the final. From a reporty style to extracting meaning. I have a wonderful editor and she teased things out of me just by asking the right questions. As we worked on bringing out the theme more, I realized that often we work blindly. We’re not sure what the theme is going in … but boy do we know it by the time we are finished. It is because we know ourselves better. This book will be a gift to the young reader, who will see he is not alone in this world, despite his affliction. It may even be a blessing.
Sorry to ramble. It’s how I find the truth.
Vijaya, the idea of working blind is true for me as well. Discovering as I go along. Usually, I end up with only a trace of what I first believed was the story. Your memoir for children, letting them know they’re not alone, sounds very interesting.
Brunonia!
Here’s my theory: Truth is not in you. Truth is not outside you. It’s neither objective facts nor your subjective understanding.
The “truth” we feel in reading any story–fiction or nonfiction–is something only exists in our minds as readers. It’s a *feeling* of truth. It’s a sense that something seems right.
I discovered this in court, where competing truths are presented. What wins is the best story, the one that *feels* to judge and jury like the one that fits.
Even when we are witnesses to a real life event, accounts vary. We saw this in Ferguson. Everyone present experienced “truth”. Real time events were real in that moment, but memory does funny things because it is affected by emotion.
So what, in fiction or memoir, creates in readers the feeling of “truth”? Your post today has the answer. It isn’t in reporting the facts. Your dry account of your friend’s murder had little effect on me.
But the watch, the silence, the aluminum lawn chair carried up to the observatory, the Karmann Ghia driven backwards…these made me feel your truth.
Why? Think about it. Time stopped. Silence. Observatory. Backwards. The symbolism of the details you chose sink the meaning of that memory.
Time. Death. Perspective. Wrong. Does this *feel* like the aftermath of a friend’s murder? Yes it does. It feels true.
Truth is in the details, but that’s because the details excite our feelings. They make space for our own memories to flood in. Their symbolism opens those floodgates for all.
To write truth, select details. As you did. And we feel your truth.
Thank you, Donald, for explaining this so well. “Facts are the enemy of truth,” I think. The accounting of just the facts creates a distance that may protect me from feelings I haven’t wanted to revisit, but the images you just highlighted are the truth of that time for me.
Brunonia, You took me right back to ’85. I lived in La-la-land myself. Only for a few years (it’s decidedly not the place for me). But during those years, I did a stint as a house-sitter for some very kind folks who took pity on me. They went to start a business in Asia, and left me to watch over (revel in the luxury of) their lovely home in Nichols Canyon. Since those streets, and that traffic, were an element in my decision to leave, I can only smile in imagining the backward trip.
As for looking back to move forward, I’ve really indulged myself this year. I’m working on a manuscript that is, in essence, backstory to my trilogy. I recently lost my mother – who passed away peacefully at the venerable age of 87. Sorry, don’t mean that revelation to be a downer to the comment thread, but my loss has given me occasion to reflect on the mothers in my work.
I can perfectly see elements of my own mother in both of the mothers of the primary protagonists of my trilogy – whose stories I’m delving deeper into in this ‘prequel’ manuscript. One is stoic, an uber-strict disciplinarian with the highest of expectations. The other is devoted – clingy, even – with a pragmatic if somewhat pessimistic outlook. And they both embody elements of my mom that I’d never consciously considered. But in writing their backstory, I can see how they both started out with youthful enthusiasm and optimistic intentions. And how the cruel vagaries of time affected their interactions with their children, but not their deeply held intentions for them. I can see the protectiveness and the hidden but fondly held hopes they cherished.
So I suppose I tend to look back after the fact. Fingers crossed this backward look helps me to forge ahead with clearer vision. But in any case, it’s been extremely interesting. Best wishes for the project! Sorry for the loss of your friend. Wishing you closure and peace.
Vaughn, I’m so sorry about the loss of your mother. I still think about mine every day, and she shows up in my writing in places I never expected. Your backstory to the trilogy sounds like a fascinating endeavor, I’d love to know how it progresses. And to read it of course.
This memory about Russell is very affecting. I’m angry and frustrated and sad hearing just this much. Your description of seeing the smog for what it was, twisting your formerly broken ankle, and definitely the backward drive are all rich with meaning. I’d love to read your finished piece.
“Go back to go forward” resonates here; I write stories about damaged people and their journey to overcome that damage so that they might lead better lives. But sometimes it takes a critique partner’s fresh eyes to recognize other important themes in my work–something to refine in the next draft(s!).
Thanks, Therese. I do see that going back to go forward theme in your writing as well. Especially in “The Moon Sisters.” You do it beautifully. I’ll send along the piece once it’s done.
Others have said that character is revealed through choice, but in fact it was Robert McKee, in an LA hotel ballroom, no less, who drilled the principle into my thick skull. (How’s that for an illustration of the world’s smallness?)
So it makes sense that our active choices as writers–what to select, what to amplify, what to discount–reveal a great deal about our present-day selves, including the dominant stories we believe about how the world works and how best to navigate it–or, indeed, if it’s navigable.
As for me, I’m seeing recurrent themes in my own fiction, even when I write in different genres. Guess I’m stuck with a certain version of “truth” until I become more enlightened.
Wishing you peace with your project. It’s hateful when a bright light like your friend is extinguished, but I’m so glad you’re still around to speak of him.
Jan, it really is a small world. As suggested earlier, maybe we should all meet up for a McKee seminar one of these days.
I’ve heard it said that writers keep writing the same story over and over, but I was surprised to see this “going back to go forward through line” connecting to Russell. Time does heal, and Russell had some very good friends who will always remember him.
Brunonia,
Driving the car backwards is so emblematic of what you are struggling with. I am living in LA now, but how different life must have been to even be able to complete such a feat. But then, forcing yourself back to that time, to a memory that is hard to face is like driving that car. You have gone back and found some of those feelings and yes truth in your memory. You honor your friend’s memory with your struggle and what eventually will flow to the page.
Beth, it was difficult to back the car up even then, which is why it took all day. What strikes me as odd was how insistent I was that we try. This writing exercise is proving to be a good one especially because it has reconnected me with some old friends. I have to say that I still miss Los Angeles. Especially when living outside Boston in such a snowy winter.
Great choice, Brunonia, writing about the car, where the pace and symbolism can shine.
Oh, and it was so great to meet you at UnCon!
Denise (Dee) Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
It was great to meet you, too, Denise. I hope we have another Uncon soon.
I have been reading “Ensouling Language” by Stephen Harrod Buhner and he talks about how we sense the truth underneath our physical perceptions. Not as a linear conscious thought. Because those seem to nearly always be lies. But as a sort of ineffable sense. But as you build your sensitivity to it, you can sense the truth more and more reliably and go deeper with it.
Basically put, bull shit smells bad. And the second you write it, you smell it if you’ve trained yourself to pay attention. Like the commenter above pointed out, he knows when he’s being clever. And he knows clever isn’t true.
“Bull shit smells bad.” Well put, Pam. Thanks for the tip about the book as well. I’m going to pick up a copy.
Here’s my take-away from your article, Brunonia
Discovering the truth in my writing requires me to fearlessly cut through several layers, through the bone, to the heart. It is messy. It is emotional. It is the way to growth. It is the way to healing.
And it fits nicely with my own experience.
Thanks, Leanne. I like the idea of “fearlessly cutting through several layers.” I need to work on being more fearless. Messy indeed!
Going backward to go forward, or as we say in the world of Alexander Technique, “you have to feel the down before you can move UP.” Finding truth/honesty—the balance within the chaos of our emotional life—is all about recognizing and embracing opposites. We can’t create a “whole” of something unless we have two halves.
In my own writing I’m starting to realize that what I say first is never the truth. The first thing is always the mask. Sometimes that mask is the opposite of what I really want to say, other times it’s just too vague to be anything worth listening to. But if I wait long enough. If I’m patient with myself after I put the first thing down, and after I acknowledge I’ve taken the easy way out, then what I really want to say—the truth in the moment—is revealed.
Time is a huge factor in uncovering the truth. The sadness that you invoked in me through sharing the details surrounding Russell’s death also filled my heart with love, the love you, Brunonia, felt for Russell. I don’t know if the same fullness of your bond with him would’ve been felt by me had you written about his death immediately following his passing.
Stepping away to step into the midst of an emotion, like going back to go forward, going down to go up, may be the secret to pouring truth into any non-fiction story.
Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for the kind and wise words, Jocosa. What you mentioned about the first thing never being the truth, that it’s a mask of some sort, resonated with me regarding my own writing. I don’t think I realize it isn’t the truth, or it may it contains some trace of truth, but the first thing always seems to just skim the surface of story and character. It takes a while for me to understand more. In writing as in life, I guess.
Brunonia, that was a fascinating exercise (and journey) to read, sifting through memory, the dance of fact and emotion, and how the silt of time can both blur and refine. It resonated with me how writing can be such an exploration, and how returning from it can change both writer and reader. (Though that “truth” thing—that one always wiggles, no matter the wind.)
By the way, we are backwards-driving brethren: I grew up in LA County (Long Beach) and once drove my parents’ car backwards for a few miles on one of the city’s big boulevards. Not that it had any problem going forward—I was indulging my creative interests.
I remember with late-teenage delight the looks on the faces of an older couple when I stopped alongside them at a traffic signal, trunk-forward. And yeah, Laurel Canyon, the Roxy, Griffith Park—my psychic aluminum chairs are different from yours, but mine were unfolded there as well.
The truth “always wiggles, no matter the wind.” Well put. It was fascinating moving back from Los Angeles to the place I grew up and sharing childhood stories with my brother. Truth in time-lapse, truth in point of view. We still can’t agree on the “facts” let alone what anything meant. Thanks for your comment. It’s great to know there’s another backwards-driver out there.
Going backward to go forward is a most interesting metaphor for such honest exploration of truth. Thanks for sharing the glimmers of truth and wisdom, which might be all we can count on.
Thanks for commenting, Mary. I think you’re right. Glimmers are the only thing we can count on. Well put.
Hi Bru, I thought about your post here all day yesterday, and about your long ride backwards through the city, which somehow seems very like the person you still are today as a writer. I think you must write your stories backwards and forward many times in order to arrive at a final, cohesive draft, and that’s a large part of what I love about your writing!
The depth to which we experience happiness and sadness go hand in hand, I think, and your experiences in LA do feel wildly Dickensian.
Someday I would love to hear more about your classes with Robert McKee.
Thanks for making me think, and grieve . . . .
Deb
Thank you, Deb. I had no idea that I’ve been writing my own story again and again, and you’re right, there is a bit of the Dickensian I think. I’d love to talk about my experiences with Bob McKee. He’s really a great teacher and a very nice guy. I could write an entire book about the writers’ group he put together.
Bru, I wish I’d had time to read this piece before my workshop on setting yesterday—will use it as an example next week. So many great details here as others have mentioned. But the broken car and going backwards—oh, to have the kind of fictional mind that could make up something like that!
But as I prepare to release my next novel, based on true events, I am weighing my response when people inevitably ask, “Did this part really happen”? Because story is important, and I don’t want to take it away from my invested readers. To me, the simplest answer—whether the parts were factual or fictional—is, “it all feels equally true.”