Telling the Truth in Fiction
By Jim Dempsey | October 12, 2021 |
I work with a writer who is in a refugee camp. She’s been there for a while (I don’t know exactly how long), and she’s been in a few others along the way (I don’t know where or how many).
As you can imagine, she’s heard many stories from the other refugees on her journey. Some are harrowing, some violent, some heart-wrenching, some laugh-out-loud funny. She has a little notebook where she writes down many of these stories, simply because she loves stories like some people love exquisite chess pieces or Civil War memorabilia. She collects them.
Some elements of these stories enter into her own writing. She takes little bits from this one and details from that and combines them to make another story. Fiction, right?
But sometimes I’m not sure.
Her current novel is about a woman who has spent several years in refugee camps. It’s a fictionalized version of her own life, she says. And it’s an amazing story. Really stunning.
I don’t know many details about her life. I don’t know how long she’s been a refugee, why she ended up in a camp for so long, or why she left her country. I don’t think that any of that is my business. My business is editing, so I concern myself with the story on the page and not the one she’s experienced.
Usually.
Sometimes though, I’m aware of how close this story could be to her life, that she might even be one of the characters, perhaps even the main character. And so I can’t help that part of my mind that wonders if she did these things, if she really went through all this, or if this scene comes from her notebook or from her imagination.
I’m especially aware of this when we discuss the characters. “It seems like Janine is being nasty for the sake of it here,” I might say. Or: “I can’t find any empathy, never mind sympathy, for Kozak. She’s horrific.”
Both Janine and Kozak are close family members of the main character. They’re supposed to be nasty and horrific—in the story. But are they based on the author’s close family members? And am I then telling her that these people—people who could be very close to her—are despicable?
I usually qualify any criticism like this by using that phrase “in the story” and emphasize that these characters are despicable. And I should add that she has never been offended and has told me to be as judgmental as I want to be.
Good art friends
This fine line between real life and fiction entered popular culture last week with Robert Kolker’s lengthy piece in the New York Times Magazine entitled Who is the Bad Art Friend? And Tiffany Yates Martin captured many people’s attitude to this story with her appropriately titled article on Writer Unboxed just yesterday Why You Can’t Stop Thinking About “Bad Art Friend”. Go there more specifics on the whole story.
A very basic summary of the original article, however, is that a short story by the author, Sonya Larson, is alleged to contain elements of the real life of another writer, Dawn Dorland, who had donated a kidney to a stranger and documented it on Facebook. Larson is also alleged to have copied phrases directly from a letter Dorland wrote to the recipient of her kidney. The dispute between the two writers has now grown to the point of lawsuits and counter-suits.
We all know that writers use real life experiences—of their own and others—for their stories. We’ve all seen those mugs and t-shirts with slogans like, “I’m a writer: anything you say or do could end up in my novel,” or, “I’m a writer: annoy me and I’ll kill you in my next story.”
Margaret Atwood has said on several occasions that there is nothing in The Handmaid’s Tale that has not already happened or is happening to women now. Michael Punke’s novel The Revenant was based on the events around the real Hugh Glass surviving a bear attack. Even The Shining is supposed to be based on Stephen King’s night in a haunted hotel.
Writers have been told for long enough to write what they know, and so they do. But when does inspiration become a complication?
The most obvious case is when there is plagiarism—directly copying another writer’s work. And there are laws in most countries to protect against that.
A balancing act
The lines blur when the author is more careful to cover their tracks. In these cases, the author might not break any laws but they could cross some moral boundaries.
I’m sure many of you have had that niggling concern that a friend or family member might recognize themselves in a character in your novel. Or that your mother might think that sex scene comes from your own life. You can always leave yourself room for plausible deniability. Except in memoirs. They can be a lot trickier. Jillian Lauren’s parents stopped talking to her after she published her first memoir Some Girls: My Life in a Harem.
The question of how close to reality you should go is a question almost all authors ask themselves at some point. And I don’t think anyone can answer it for you. All novels have to contain the truth. By that I mean, that the events have to be truthful in that particular story world.
So you have to weigh up the consequences of making events or characters identifiable with how true you want to make your story.
For example, I’m not working with any writers in refugee camps at the moment. The story at the start of this article was shaped from my work with a few different authors. I changed the details to protect the identity of one author who is in a situation a little like that of a refugee camp and added the experiences of other authors, who are also using real life circumstances in their work, to convey my point.
Writing—all art—should reflect real life. It would be a real shame if some writers then censor their work because they might have their own bad art friend. Herman Melville probably said it best when he wrote: “Truth is like a thrashing-machine; tender sensibilities must keep out of the way.”
Have you experienced any dilemmas of truth in your writing? How close have you come to depicting real life in your novel? And, for memoir writers, how do you deal with the potential fallout from those people you’ve included in your story?
Jim Dempsey (he/him) is a book editor who specializes in detailed analysis and editing of novel manuscripts through his company, Novel Gazing. He has worked as an editor for more than 20 years. He has a master’s degree in creative writing and is a professional member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading and is a trustee of the Arkbound Foundation. Jim is fascinated by the similarities between fiction and psychotherapy, since both investigate the human condition, the things that make us uniquely human. He explores this at The Fiction Therapist website. If you have a specific concern with your novel, send an email to jim [at] thefictiontherapist.com, or visit the website to ask for a free sample edit. You can follow Jim on Instagram @the_fiction_therapist.
This has been on my mind a lot for the past several years as I’ve developed a novel that’s coming out in January that includes some experiences I have had in real life. They occurred when I was a child and a handful of people know what actually happened and who was involved. But I come from a small town and a lot of the people I knew growing up read my books. There is a chance that some people will put two and two together. Which only bothers me a little. Because the person I based the antagonist on knows that he was an antagonist in my life.
The real struggle I am having in my own mind lately is how to go about writing a story in the future in which my own experiences and thoughts have the potential to hurt someone in my life now. It’s one of those things you want to work through by writing (as we do) and that would make a compelling story that I think a lot of women could relate to…but would it really be worth dredging up the past or allowing someone you care about to think that the thoughts you allow your character to have were actually your thoughts at one time (or are still)?
In other words, at what point is our own catharsis damaging to us? Funnily enough, that’s a theme I deal with in the book I have coming out in January (The Girl Who Could Breathe Under Water) but I guess I haven’t actually answered it to my own satisfaction.
Related to this, when I started getting serious about writing and publishing, my dad said to me, “Just don’t write about me until I’m dead.” Which is so funny to me, both because I can’t imagine having anything negative or critical to say about him and because my mother actually wants me to write about her (and she is very aware of her flaws).
You raise a good point here, Erin, in that it doesn’t have to be a negative experience to be included in someone’s novel. They could see it as a very caring thing.
And I wonder if any novelist has ever truly answered whether that catharsis can be damaging, or even truly nourishing, which only means more great novels!
Yes, I read with interest the piece in the NYT Magazine. I think there is fault on both sides, but I also know that writers for centuries have found that grist for the mill in their daily living: what they overhear, who they talk to, what they see. My WIP has a character based on a woman I knew when I worked as a maternity nurse. But over time, my character has outgrown the initial vision and remembrance of that person. I am sure she would read my work and agree that it’s not her. Creativity has to become part of experience. That’s what writing a NOVEL truly is.
I agree, Beth. Real life can be great for inspiration but is no substitute for imagination.
As for who is the real bad art friend…yes, I think there is fault on both sides too.
Jim, right now I’m struggling with letting my child character stutter –it ties into the theme nicely about speaking truth–but I also worry that she’ll be too much like me and what will people think? It’s strange that the very stories only you can write you are terrified of. And like Erin, I don’t ever want to hurt others so some stories stay in my head until…the pain of remaining silent is intolerable? We shall see. I’ve been carrying secrets for decades and I’m still okay. This writing life is such a blessing because we get to wrestle with our demons on paper, and even find victory.
I’ve had a couple of students like yours who’ve led difficult lives and asking probing questions actually deepens their work. I also sense a relief, a sigh of letting go. The very act of writing creates that bit of distance and the realization that you are not your tragedy. Thanks for an illuminating post.
That’s such a great way to put it, Vijaya: “until…the pain of remaining silent is intolerable.” I guess that’s where that fear lies, and fear is such a powerful driver in so many stories. As long as there is some of that relief in the end though. That’s what can really make the difference for the author, and the readers.
“It’s strange that the very stories only you can write you are terrified of.”
This is it exactly, Vijaya. What makes our writing honest, relatable, and vulnerable in such a way that readers can see themselves there and have that moment of, “Thank God, someone else knows exactly what I’m going through…”–those are the things that expose the writer the most. These are the things that we’re afraid others will know about us and about which we will be judged.
But they are the kinds of things that actually make an impact, that will actually be remembered.
I don’t read his fiction, but I do appreciate this quote from Chuck Palahniuk’s book on writing: “Do not write to be liked. Write to be remembered.” (Consider This)
What people really remember are what Betsy Lerner calls “all the feelings no one ever admits to.” And also this quote from her: “Writing is nothing if not breaking the silence. The problem is, no one likes a snitch.” (The Forest for the Trees)
Erin, thank you for those quotes (I need to add them to my quote page) and your own words; they help me be a bit more brave. I have quote by Anais Nin that reflects Lerner’s: “The role of the writer is not to say what all can say but what we are unable to say.” God bless.
Everything I write is intricate shading, each line representing current events, history, moments witnessed or told, my imagination, and, yes, my life. It’s even all told in a fantasy setting. In the end, each stroke disappears in the entirety.
Yet, each word close to my life is typed in a bold only I can see. And yet, when my fingers hovered over the keyboard this morning I hesitated. The old cautions whispered, “Be careful. Don’t say too much.” I suspect, and maybe know, that I’m better at covering the pasts of others than my own life. It’s an ongoing debate with myself, as in each day. It’s ongoing because I’ve learned to debate and walk a knife edge at the same time. Better that my stories stand on their own merit than become dangerous tales held too close. Right? And so the debate continues.
Did Charlotte Brontë write Jane Eyre out of her personal experience? I don’t recall that she did – but governesses were a common in her life, and a way for young women with education but no money to support themselves.
Similarly, I share a major disease with one of my main characters – but she is no more me than the other two. Being able to give it the nuance it needs for the character comes from something that would have been very hard to write from research, and is easier because I know what that part of her life is like. And indeed, conferring that knowledge is part of the reason I chose to write this story. A small part, and lightly touched upon, but as distinctive as oil on snow.
I agonize between keeping it real, and softening it too much to move the plot faster.
We writers use everything including the squeal. And most of us know what we’re entitled to use – and what is plagiarism. Long-dead writers have shown us how it’s done. Those who push the boundaries – such as the cases you mentioned – are showing us where the stakes are, literally.
Jim, thank you (and the other WUers) for the sifted perspectives on revealing, shading or exploiting facts behind fictions.
I sent drafts of the memoir about my lunatic high-school shoplifting days to 10 people who were participants or observers of those times (and crimes) and none were offended by my characterizations, but instead gave me more refined memory nudges from those lost days.
I was most surprised by how freely my best friend, who had a hand in some of the more manic thefts, said to go ahead and publish (still working on that), despite the fact that he is currently a high-level national security adviser, who perhaps would be hesitant to have his colorful high school antics outlined.
I’m still putting final touches on it and adding some small stories, and will send it out again so the guilty have one last chance to remove their names and/or tales.
I love this post, Jim–you’ve demonstrated so cleverly and viscerally and put your finger on what I think is at the heart of why this story has captured so many authors: We all draw from life…and where is the line?
Yes, Larson seems to have plagiarized actual lines of another author’s writing, and that’s unethical. But I do find myself thinking of how many stories I’ve edited (and written) that draw not just from the author’s own life, but from everything in their lives–including stories they may have heard or witnessed among the people around them. As you point out: It’s what writers do, observe life and ask “what if” and expand and extrapolate and imagine.
Where is the line?
So many have pointed out all the elements in the forefront of the story that are easy to pass judgment on: the plagiarism, the mean-spirited mockery, denial and lies, etc. That’s all true, pretty black-and-white.
It’s that squishy gray area of what we as artists may “borrow” from the lives around us–something I’d hazard that nearly every writer on earth has done, and maybe does regularly. When is that art and when is it a breach of privacy, or ethics, or morality?
Even if Kolker hadn’t told the story as expertly as he did, I think that question alone would haunt writers.
Thanks for a great, thought-provoking piece on a great, thought-provoking piece.
“It’s what writers do, observe life and ask “what if” and expand and extrapolate and imagine.”
Exactly. My woman’s novel, Play It Again, Sam, was based loosely on something that happened to one of my good friends. I asked her if it was okay to write her story, and she said, “Sure, as long as you give me a happy ending.”
Women who have read the novel have contacted me to tell me how this could have been their life. At least the catalyst of a woman being hit with a divorce, totally unexpected and totally upending what they thought was a happy relationship.
Any one of those readers could have accused me of stealing their story – it’s a situation all too common among women in their forties and early fifties. I’m glad they were readers with more understanding of how the creative process works.
Thanks for the interesting post and the link to the article by Tiffany. I was not aware of that dispute, and the questions surrounding it are not easy ones to answer.