On the heals of Jan Greenberg’s post contrasting fabricated memoirs with the tireless research she’s putting into her book on artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude, comes the news, in yesterday’s New York Times, that Esquire plans to run a fictitious first-person diary titled, “The Last Days of Heath Ledger” in its April issue. The “diary,” written in fact by Lisa Taddeo, follows the late actor from London to New York, imagining his thoughts and actions during the days leading to his death from an accidental overdose of prescription medicine on January 22. In today’s world of information overload, it’s not so surprising that somebody came up with yet another way to exploit the tragic death of a talented actor. What is surprising is that in the Times article, several publishing professionals, including one who teaches magazine writing at NYU, endorse and even applaud the move.
I was trained to believe the line between truth and fiction should not be blurred. I’m not saying people shouldn’t write historical novels or produce movies and TV shows that are “inspired” by real events. The public usually knows what it’s getting into with those creations. But including a fictionalized piece in an environment where people expect truth and accuracy undermines a publication’s credibility. Years ago, when I was a contributor to Scholastic Search, a fantastic American history magazine for middle school students, the editor proposed a series of “interviews” between notables from different eras. Ben Franklin might sit down with Theodore Roosevelt, for example, or Rosa Parks might speak with Pocahontas. It’s an intriguing idea, and a good writer who did a lot of research might pull it off. But it made me uneasy to think of a fictional piece running in a kids’ non-fiction magazine.
Similarly, it drives me nuts when I see bookstores shelving installments from the Dear America series and its descendants and imitators in the non-fiction section. If store personnel can’t distinguish those fictionalized diaries from the real thing, how can kids? I vastly prefer the original American Girl books, where the historical fiction is followed by an engaging essay exploring the true events that inspired the novel. Those books give you the best of both worlds: compelling fiction and historical context under one cover.
In recent years, the trend in kids’ nonfiction has been toward more attribution and accountability. When my editors first told me they would require footnotes for quotations and statistics, I balked, flashing back to those long ago days of writing college papers. But now I embrace the chance to hold the veracity of my work up to public scrutiny by including footnotes and inviting readers to e-mail me with questions about sources. And when those sources conflict with no clear consensus, as in the spelling of Annie Oakley’s real last name (Moses or Mozee), I do my best to report the disagreement and explain why I chose the option I did. In kids’ nonfiction, honesty is the best policy and accuracy always matters.
This morning in the New York Times I read about another outed memoirist, Margaret B, Jones, whose account of life as a foster child growing up in the drug infested L.A. projects, Love and Consequences, turns out to be pure fiction. This follows on the footsteps of another recent fabrication, Misha Defonseca’s Misha:A Memoir of the Holocaust, which includes a story about being raised by wolves. Wolves? Did anybody who read it believe this?
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Meanwhile I’m slogging away with my writing partner Sandra Jordan, trying to copyedit for the twentieth time every detail, including a complicated List of Artworks, Bibliography, Quotes, text and more of a non-fiction project Christo and Jeanne-Claude:Through Tthe Gates and Beyond, scheduled to be published sooner rather than later. It might have been easier to write a novel based on these fascinating, strong-minded artists. But it is not a novel. It is non-fiction.
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The beauty of biography lies in digging deeply into the life and art of someone else and getting it right. The challenge in writing about living artists is telling a vivid story that does not begin “They were born” and ends “They died.” We cannot put words in the subject’s mouth or invent the action. Frankly if I were writing about myself, I would turn it into fiction, as I did in my first autobiographical novel A Season In-Between, back in 1979. It was more fun that way. Jones’ editor, who recalled all the books, says there were other ways to tell that story instead of lying about it. The book might have been a terrific novel.
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I wonder what others think about this? Let me pose a question. If you were writing a memoir, would you feel it was proper to sometimes exaggerate or embellish the facts of your life?
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My new book, Side by Side: New Poems Inspired by Art from Aro
und the World, an anthology that I edited, will be published in April.
