THE DOCTOR IS IN

If you will be in the Raleigh, NC area, on Saturday, please stop by Borders, 8825 N. Six Forks Road, where I'll be reading at 1PM.

And if you're a mom who writes, check out my seminar on Managing Motherhood and a Writing Career, August 14, 2007, 6:30-9:30 PM, at mediabistro.com, 494 Broadway, NYC.

Still More on Truth in Memoirs, or Goodbye to All That

Several months ago, I received the kind of email I used to dream about getting. A writer I admired had read one of my essays in an anthology and found it powerful and moving. She was co-editing an anthology on a related topic and seeking voices like mine.  Would I consider contributing an essay?

You bet I would. The topic of the anthology is one I am passionate about. The series of events that had crystallized my thinking about the focal issue was dramatic and painful. If I could tell the story effectively, I might make a real contribution to the literature on the subject. [Note the bland and generic language used to describe both the anthology and my experience: See Disclaimer below.] I set to work.

Like most stories, this one involved other people. They didn’t always show themselves in the best light. Neither did I. But I didn’t perceive any villains, only a group of normally flawed human beings coping with an unfair and generally miserable situation.

I was proud of the essay I wrote. The anthology editors liked it. There was the usual back-and-forth about minor changes, but in general, everyone was happy.

Then they turned the volume in to the publishing company, and we all took a sharp right turn into Oceania. I began receiving near-daily emails that began, “I hate to ask you this, but our publisher is afraid…” followed by a request to change some factual description that might enable somebody somewhere to identify one of the people or situations I was writing about. Mind you, this was an examination of a problematic social/professional issue, not an exposé of a murder or trafficking ring. There was no client confidentiality involved. No animals were killed in the unfolding of the story.

The concern was that many years ago, a friend had shared with me, and a few others, a secret, which I had kept until my friend decided it was no longer a secret and began discussing it openly. The problematic responses of some of those “others,” and my own inadequate attempts to help, formed the crux of the narrative. The events had colored my feelings about a crisis I was facing in my own life, and had shaped my attitude toward certain institutions in a lasting way. [Again, see Disclaimer.]

Had I contacted my friend, the publisher wanted to know, to ask permission to tell the story? No, I hadn’t. I had, in fact, tried unsuccessfully to track this person down several times over the intervening years, just to say hi and catch up, and I had tried again when contemplating this essay. Then how did I know the person wouldn’t object to my telling the story now?

I hadn’t realized that the possibility of someone's objecting to a factually accurate, nonconfidential account should be a factor in deciding whether or not to write about it. Since this person comes off as the closest thing to the hero in this story, it was hard to imagine serious objections. And I had already changed all of the names and smudged some other identifiers. Still, the publishers had much more experience with these matters than I did. I made the first few suggested changes. Then more concerns were raised. And so, incrementally, almost below my threshold of realization, the essay tipped dangerously close to fiction.

Finally, about two weeks ago, I received a request that blasted me back into the real world. The nature of the secret itself was deemed too volatile. Would I please change it to something less controversial?

No, I would not.

Then, would I be willing to sign a waiver, assuming sole responsibility for any violation of the privacy of a third party?

I didn't even know what that meant. I withdrew the essay.

The anthology editors, who had served as reluctant go-betweens, got directly involved at that point. They urged me to hold off on my decision until they could obtain a realistic risk assessment from the publisher’s legal department, and I agreed. A few days later, the verdict came back: the secret could stay.

So the essay is in. But it’s still not the real story. And I don’t think I will accept an invitation like this again.

I have always been more comfortable writing fiction than nonfiction. My unreliable, and sometimes too-convenient, memory for facts makes me anxious. I prefer the freedom to play; to create or rearrange characters and events to uncover a deeper, non-factual truth. But essay writing has, in the past, presented its own beauty and challenge. As the wonderful memoirist Andi Buchanan put it, “I love to discover the story within the story and bring it to light.”

I understand the desire to avoid potential legal complications. I also believe that readers who expect personal essays to be 100% factual are confused about the difference between memoir writing and news reporting, between art photography and photojournalism.

But there is also a line between a studio photograph, in which the artist may have carefully arranged the details and lighting to bring out certain effects, and one that has been photoshopped by committee to obscure the very truths the photographer is working to communicate. And if my essay didn’t cross that line it inched right up to it.

As in my essay, there are no villains here. But there are victims: Writers, who are hung out to dry if we’re “caught” exaggerating for comic effect, rearranging for clarity, or condensing to keep the reader awake and engaged; but who are pressed to paint over any potentially offensive material. And, of course, those readers who naively assume the integrity of what they're reading.

DISCLAIMER: The events described herein are altered beyond all recognition or sense for the protection of the writer, who has enough troubles, thank you.

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Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. Her book,  Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity, is now available in bookstores. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Richard]

Sue, while I know a bit about the laws of defamation and invasion of privacy and therefore can sympathize a bit with the attorneys, it seems they overreacted. This may be the lawyers' job, and it may be the client's job to bring the lawyers back to reality. (Remember, if the lawyers didn't alert them to a possible legal danger, they could themselves be liable to the clients for malpractice.)

It seems as if the system worked here, though a bit creakily.

You know, I write essays/memoir often, and unless I have to submit it for something that really demands nonfiction. I just call it fiction. About a quarter of the "stories" in my last story collection are really just essays -- and I don't even bother to change my friends' names.

Obviously it's much rarer to get in trouble for calling nonfiction fiction than it is the other way around.

Editors and publishers of essay anthologies sometimes seem to want it both ways: they want the sometimes raw reality of nonfiction but then are concerned about the legal (and to be fair, ethical) consequences.

Having been to one of your readings/appearances in a bookstore, I know those who attend your reading tomorrow are in for a terrific experience. Good luck!

[Bobby Dylan]

It doesn't take a moral compass to know which way the wind blows.

If an honest and thoughtful psychologist is backed up against the wall and cajoled to turn truth "as she knows it" into fictional story, it's not so surprising that drug-addicted sociopaths like James Frey will do damn near anything their told by their publisher to make big $$ and find a larger audience.

And isn't it interesting how Oprah pumped him up and used him for her own purposes and then deflated him and kicked him back into the gutter when she felt betrayed by him.I guess he showed us that if you live by a million little lies, you also can die by them.

Sometimes, even the Senior Vice President of Doubleday has to stand naked.

(I'm on tour with my band now, but posting this via my Crackberry)

[Dr.Sue]

Richard, thanks so much. I probably should have talked to you before things got to that point!

And, Bobby, thanks to you, too--the Maggie's farm experience cuts across all disciplines, doesn't it!

[Account Deleted]

i appreciated your kind way of knowledge...