Writing for Survival

Truth and Lies in Nonfiction Writing

"We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection." — Anaïs Nin

Growing up, I learned to keep secrets and hide indiscretions as I imagine someone in the CIA would: deflect, be short, and vague in your responses.

I learned to weave lies with the precision of a surgeon: show emotion but not too much, and make it believable.

These were all tactics I mastered from watching my mother survive an abusive marriage — when keeping appearances wasn’t just necessary, but mandatory.

I have no problem admitting that I was an excellent liar for most of my childhood and teen years; I had to be. But what started out as lies based on endurance eventually seeped into every facet of my life. It was easier to fib about why I hadn’t slept or why I couldn’t concentrate, than to elaborate or discuss what was really going on in my life. Only, after a while, I couldn’t sort between what genuinely happened to me from what I imagined, and what I said to who, when. Whatever parallel my mind had created began to break down, and I found it exhausting trying to keep up.

Eventually, I chose integrity, but it took my deceit spreading like cancer, quietly transforming the terrain of my life, for me to work diligently on being more transparent. In hindsight, I now understand that my inability to be honest wasn’t just about sustaining some form of normalcy but feeling insecure, unsure, and fearful of what would happen if I spoke up. I wasn’t just protecting myself, but others.

For a long time, I didn’t know how to express myself with spoken words, but I knew how to write. Through journaling and writing songs, stories, and scripts, I conveyed my many layers of childhood and teenage angst without judgment, fear, or repercussion. Like when I wrote a song in middle school titled “The Day I Run Away." My attempt at a modern-day power ballad was…something else, but under my comical effort were real emotions that I struggled to release.

Writing became my true instrument for survival, a currency I was afraid to cash in. I was private about my process, locking my deepest thoughts, dreams, and ideas in my journal or school notebooks like they were in an ironclad safe at Fort Knox. I was terrified of people seeing me, but if I trusted you, really trusted you, I may have shared a poem or two that spoke to my inner turmoil or question. Even my longing for a life with more love, assurance, and abundance, but that was rare.

Once, during my freshman year of high school, I built up enough courage to share some of my emo-esque poetry with my English teacher, who then threatened to send me to the counseling office because she found my writing too dark and too emotional. Honestly, I don’t even remember what any of it was about. This was 1998, and I had just discovered electropop and trip-hop, so I’m sure it was my attempt at something dark and intense that fell in line with Garbage’s song, “#1 Crush,” or “2Wicky” by Hooverphonic. There were no discussions about why I wrote what I did or questions to probe my mental health or overall safety. Just a quick dismissal and trepidation that has stuck with me for many years. Sadly, it would be well over a decade before I’d share anything with anyone like that ever again.

When I first took that leap, choosing the opportunity to bare myself in an essay about my miscarriages and failed marriage, I was overcome with fear; what were people going to think about me? When the article went live, the worry was almost debilitating, but I soon realized that the magic of surrendering, of lying bare for the world to see, was seeing how much my story resonated with others. As I discovered, sharing my work brought healing and, more importantly, self-acceptance. I no longer felt alone in my journey.

What no one ever tells you, what no recovering liar ever divulges, is that living authentically is not as easy as lying. It takes much more courage and humility to be forthcoming and open to ridicule. Sometimes, it’s easier to give in, to lie.

Bravely honoring your truth is rewarding, but it never gets easier. Over the last 10 years, through publishing dozens of personal essays about some of my most private experiences, I’ve realized telling the truth can be just as draining. But no matter how consuming, embarrassing, or shameful the truth can be, the burden feels less heavy when you’re done, and there is nothing that feels better than the lightness of authenticity.

Something I would have never imagined was how trivial lying is in the writing. I cannot tell you how often I’ve been encouraged by publishers and editors to expand the truth (in my essays) for “continuity purposes” or to “lie a little.” This isn’t unusual for nonfiction writers, but for someone who has been against lying (for so very long), even a small exaggeration can feel like a spiral back into a bad habit.

When writing and sharing personal experiences, how do we (as writers) know when it's okay to “fib” or when we should just refrain from saying anything at all? It can be a difficult thing to judge: what is too much, when it comes to writing, or not enough? For me, it's the everyday question, but I have created my own system to tackle this (potential) moral dilemma.

Here are the three questions I ask myself before sharing or even writing about my own life: Do I tell it all? Can I trust my memories? And what is important to the narrative without hurting the people I love?

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Last summer, I read “Telling True Stories: A Nonfiction Writer's Guide” from Harvard University. The anthology was filled with essays from various nonfiction writers, who struggle to write with complete vulnerability.

One quote stood out to me by American journalist Jacqui Banaszynski, who was writing an investigative journalism piece about a famine camp in Ethiopia. As Jacqui shadowed the lives of young women struggling to survive and care for their loved ones, she grappled with what she could share about their journey. Was she sharing too much or crossing a boundary not meant for her? After much back and forth, she decided to approach the piece from her own viewpoint: how the experience changed her. She wrote, “Stories are our soul. Write and edit and tell yours with your whole selves. Tell them as if they are all that matters. It matters that you do it as if that’s all there is.” (Kramer 23-24)

I have so many stories inside of me — my personal history that I want to release, but do I tell it all? The answer, simply put and to the point by Jacqui, was clear, but the concept isn’t always easy to accept. What does it mean to tell all? Writing your journey, when it involves many other people, isn’t painless. And what do you say: all of it, just the bits and pieces, or none of it at all?

I’ve spoken to other nonfiction writers and past professors (probably at nauseating levels) about my internal struggle. Many writers exaggerate a little when it comes to storytelling: they fill in some missing gaps, make up forgotten dialogue, and rearrange stories for readability purposes, but I’ve never wanted to do that. I’ve always tried to be as forthcoming as possible, but by telling the truth, am I crossing an imaginary, life-changing line? Could sharing my story damage my relationships?

In Annie Dillard’s “The Writing Life,” she also asked herself this question. She concluded, “You write it all, discovering it at the end of the line of words. The line of words is a fiber optic, flexible as wire; it illuminates the path just before its fragile tip. You prove it, delicate as a worm.” (Dillard 13) Having doubts or questions (about what to share) is normal, but to start, you have to write it all. You can always—just as easily—retract and edit things out later. All that matters is that you finish that first draft.

Writing personal essays and memoir is often a cathartic experience of releasing what’s been hidden inside, but readers do not need to know everything. If anything at all. Sometimes what we write stays with us and never sees the light of day. Sometimes the act of writing is greater than the need to share it.

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Growing up, lying like I did, I now second-guess everything. I should have ‘there are two sides to every story’ painted on my office wall because it's—in a way—become my writing mantra. The perpetual question: is this my truth, the truth, or just one possibility among many? Can I trust my memories, remember everything—especially the really hard, gut-wrenching, life-changing moments—accurately? If I don’t, what will be the consequence? What is the price if I misspeak? It’s not an easy topic to tackle and one I find many memoirists struggle with.

Mary Karr’s incredible how-to guide, “The Art of Memoir,” speaks to this very idea. “You think you know the story so well. It’s a mansion inside your head, each room just waiting to be described, but pretty much every memoirist I’ve ever talked to finds walls of such rooms changing shape around her. There are shattering earthquakes and tectonic-plate-type shifts. Or it's like memory is a snow globe that invariably gets shaken so as to shroud the events inside.” (Karr 184) She goes on to add, no matter how much you kill yourself with the details, “No matter how much you’re gunning for the truth, the human ego is also a stealthy, low-crawling bastard, and for pretty much everybody, getting used to who you are is a lifelong spiritual struggle. The best you can hope for is to rip off each mask as you find it, blotting out your vision.” (Karr 186)

Through writing, I’ve realized the best thing to do is be honest about not remembering all the details, or needing to omit some things, or being forthcoming about what I recall (to the best of my ability). What’s most important is that I acknowledge that my truth may not be reflective of someone else's, but that does not take anything away from my story, my journey, or my words. Many other nonfiction writers and memoirists share this struggle but understand that all stories are worthy of being shared. It's not our responsibility to accurately tell them all, but being honest about that fact is key.

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There are things I chose not to share (private matters) out of respect for my family and friends and their own privacy. Initially, when I began to remove some events or details from my work, I worried that it would hurt the narrative. That it wouldn’t make sense to the reader, or would not be as exciting to read or easy to follow. Then I read “Good Morning, Destroyer of Men’s Souls: A Memoir About Women, Addiction, and Love” by Nina Renata Aron, and I realized there are many ways you can handle these types of situations and still make your novel work.

Nina retells her experience of loving a man with a heroin addiction over twenty years and two children. There are many moments she chooses not to share information or events with the reader. As if she’s telepathically stating, “I can’t share the details but…” or “You’ll just have to trust me on this…” It may seem trite, but for a memoirist, often, it's all we've got. Readers are often okay with this tactic and don’t punish the author for not divulging all the juicy gossip. A reminder that if you don’t feel confident about moving forward with a piece, you can either let it go until you’re ready or skip some things. There are no rules stating you have to be 1000% transparent. You’re allowed to keep some things for yourself.

Memoir isn’t easy. Writing about yourself and your life and experiences is not unworried. I find personal essay and memoir to be a topic I continuously struggle with but one I can’t help but write. I understand that this process is a process: many different drafts, contemplative struggle, and vast amounts of shame and humiliation. The key is to take your time, sit and see what feels right, and never rush. The worst thing you can do is to publish something and immediately regret it. That type of damage is irreversible.

Jami Attenberg probably said it best in her memoir, “I Came All This Way to Meet You.” “There are some things my work can’t save me from, this I have learned. I can write things down, I can process the events of my life, I can put them in a box, or on a screen, or in a book; I can package them safely there. I can change my life with the written word, but I can’t fix everything.” (Attenberg 126-127)

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Writing can’t fix everything. In a way, writing can be seen as a selfish and ego-driven act, but when opened to the consideration of others, it can be a great tool for healing and transformation. But I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t consider these questions in memoir and personal essay. Because no matter how much I have accepted my journey into honesty, it doesn’t always mean those around me have as well.

Today, I often wonder if I’m too honest at times. Sure, the weightlessness of transparency feels so much better than sleeping with a quilt of lies, but I’m not perfect. There have been many times, as an adult, I have felt the need to lie, especially when it came to my own safety. Like when I found myself in an emotionally abusive relationship six years ago and was endlessly berated about my past relationships. Not everyone deserves to know everything about anyone. Ultimately, you have the right to share what you want when you want.

I am, though, trying my best to learn that it’s okay to fib or exaggerate a little when it comes to writing: change names, physical descriptions, and even some filler dialogue. It's okay to merge days or moments for a narrative structure. I’m not a liar for omitting and choosing to keep some things private. Understanding that many stories can be told and one truth does not always outweigh another.

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