Recently
I went to an art opening featuring the work of my friend Genevieve
Barbee. For those who don't know, Genevieve, in addition to being an
artist, runs an amazing podcast called the AP Collector. I've
appeared on the show twice; once to talk about my own own work and
once alongside Marcel Walker to discuss the Chutz-POW! Comic.
Genevieve
calls herself a collector of stories. When I arrived at the venue I
saw that her podcast recording equipment was set up. After greeting
me she asked a simple question (a question she asked everyone at the
event).
“Truth
or Dare?”
I
chose Truth. We sat down at her makeshift studio and she said, “Tell
me one true thing about yourself.”
I
could have said something like, “I like bacon,” or “I have
brown eyes,” and that would have been the end of it. But I wanted
to say something more meaningful than that. I think I failed. In that
moment, wanting to be honest and truthful, I found it very difficult
to say something really true, something meaningful. I suddenly felt
like anything I could say was just too private. I ended up saying
something like, “I'm a writer, all I do is lie. Maybe that's the
answer... one true thing about me is that I'm a storyteller.”
Lame.
My
reaction surprised me, mainly because if you asked me in less formal
circumstances I would tell you that I'm an open book. Apparently
that's a lie I've been telling myself as well. Although, maybe I am
an open book, but it's a book that just happens to be fiction.
This
morning when I finally decided to write about this after ruminating
about it for weeks the following quote was posted by a friend on
Facebook.
"That
was my father's final joke, I guess. A man tells his stories so many
times that he becomes the stories. They live on after him. And in
that way he becomes immortal." – From the movie Big Fish.
Our
lives, our personalities, are a the result of what we have
experienced, of what has come before. But those events are gone,
consigned to the past never to be repeated. All we have of our past
experiences are our memories, and Memory is a notoriously unreliable
narrator. Our memories are not exact replicas of the facts. We never
really have access to the truth of what happened. Our memories become
the stories we tell ourselves, not a representation of what really
happened.
So
what one true thing can any of us tell about ourself that isn't in
some way, inadvertently or not, a lie?
Stories
grow and change in the telling. Every time we replay a memory or tell
a story from our life we are reinforcing the narrative that exists in
our mind, which may bear little resemblance to the actual facts of
what occurred. No two people experience any event the same way, so
the memories they have of it, the stories they tell, are different.
This
feeds on itself. As we experience more of life and discover more and
more of who we are we tell the stories that reinforce our self-image.
You would think most of us would want to present ourselves in the
most positive light but that's not always the case. Think about it...
we all know those people who describe themselves as unlucky, or bad
with money, or hot-headed. Their life usually illustrate these
descriptors. They have become the story they tell. In many cases
people are told these stories, are convinced they are true, when they
are too young to know who they really are. It is far too easy, even
as an adult, to become trapped by someone else's narrative.
I'm
fascinated by this dichotomy between history and memory, fact and
fiction. They overlap and create new patterns and become the story of
the world.
This
tension is something I play with in my novel Bedivere:The King's
Right Hand. Bedivere is one of the knights of King Arthur. Now
old he is telling the story of his life. He is very aware of not only
his failing memory, but also of the fact that the tales of King
Arthur and the knights are already becoming legend.
If
I may quote myself:
“Historians
have come to me since I have taken up residence here... They want to
know specifics... I cannot answer most of what they ask. For all
their focus on details they miss the most important element, the
human one. No matter how much they are able to chronicle and
reconstruct, they still get it wrong.
“The
bards touch on the heart of matters, but they could care less about
the actual truth of events. Tales of dragons and enchanted knights
are more interesting than lists of supplies and the minutiae of
running a kingdom. For all of their insight into human nature, like
the historians, they too get it wrong.”
In
one part of the story Bedivere is discussing Sir Tristan, who in my
version is as much a bard as he is a warrior. Bedivere says that
Tristan is “a liar, the way all the best storytellers are.”
All
of which may be an overwrought way of justifying why I couldn't
reveal something really personal. Those who know me well know that I
am comfortable sharing intimate details of my life. The older I get
though it seems that there are fewer and fewer people who really know
me well. While I meet new people and make new friends easily they
rarely achieve the depth that older friendships did. Maybe that's
age. Maybe the old friends are the people who were there when I was
figuring out who I was and now that I have a much better idea of who
that is I don't feel the need to share as deeply. So many of the most
significant stories of my life, those that truly form the person I
am, are far enough in the past as to be completely unknown to newer
friends.
And
in some cases, in some of the most important cases, my story overlaps
with other people's stories. Overlaps in a way that prevents me from
telling it. Part of it is not my story to tell. Some of the most true
things in my life involve others and to tell them would be a betrayal
of those people. I'm sure the story I would tell would surprise them,
and be very different from the story they would tell of the same
events. There is truth in both versions, but they are separate
truths.
So
what have I learned from this wrestling with the truth? Maybe I'm not
as open as I think I am. Maybe I'm not as honest, primarily with
myself. That there are more parts of me that I still feel a need to
protect than I thought. That I'm still vulnerable. That I can be very
open and honest but I'm picky about who I choose to share with. That
I am protective of others as well as myself. That a simple question
can still send me off soul-searching.
But
even though I'm aware that my memories are unreliable and that my
stories have changed the past, I will keep telling them. With age
comes new insight. The stories change as I do. So do their
significance. In the end all we really leave behind are the stories
others tell about us.
What
do I want on my tombstone? I used to think the simple words, The End
would suffice. Now I'm happy with To Be Continued...
