Finding Authenticity in the Blur: The Art and Ethics of Memoir Writing
A palpable tension filled the airwaves when I started talking about the blurry lines between fact and truth that we often contend with as we tell our stories. This was during a workshop I was teaching on memoir writing.
When memoirists (and ghostwriters like me who assist them) give written form to past experiences, the intention isn’t to create a journalistic account. We’re not preparing exhibits A, B, or C as evidence to be presented in a courtroom. Instead, think of memoir writing as creating a portrait. To bring out the vivid emotions or the deeper message, sometimes we might need to use a shade that’s slightly different from the actual palette of events.
But many authors, especially those new to memoir-writing, are reluctant to alter details from their lived experiences. “Isn’t that cheating?” they ask. “Am I still being genuine if I change the order of events?”
We all remember the scandal over James Frey’s memoir, A Million Little Pieces. It actually turned out to be a pseudo-memoir.
Frey’s book was marketed as a true account of his experiences with addiction, crime, and recovery. The problem arose when it was revealed that significant portions of his story were either greatly embellished or wholly fabricated. Frey did a little more than alter minor details for the sake of narrative clarity. He made substantial changes and additions that presented a different life from the one he lived. By doing so, he crossed the threshold from artistic representation to fabrication, a move that misled readers who believed they were engaging with a truthful account of his experiences.
While we do have creative license to ensure our stories flow well and connect with readers, there’s still a responsibility to remain tethered to the essence of our experiences. Changing a name, merging two minor events into one for the sake of simplicity, or slightly adjusting timelines are generally accepted practices in the memoir-writing world. However, inventing major events or portraying yourself in a dramatically different light would stray from the unwritten contract between memoirists and their readers: the promise of emotional if not always factual truth.
When writing your memoir, you’re not going to get all the details exactly right no matter how hard you try anyway — that’s pretty much a guarantee. Memory, even at its best, is a fickle partner. It doesn’t replay events with clinical precision. It narrates, and in narration, sometimes events get a soft focus, timelines might blur, or emotions color the details. And that’s completely natural.
You may still worry, “But what if someone, somewhere notices that a detail’s been tweaked?”
My advice? Be transparent. There’s no harm in letting your readers know upfront. Consider adding a note, something like: “This memoir is based on my personal experiences and memories. To protect the privacy of individuals and for narrative coherence, certain events, timelines, and details have been modified.”
To be clear, I don’t advocate for the creation or alteration of events to the extent that James Frey did. Instead, I encourage memoirists to navigate their memories with honesty, adjusting details only when necessary for the sake of clarity, while preserving the authenticity of their experiences. The goal is to strike a balance between staying true to your story and presenting it in a way that resonates with readers.
In the end, your memoir is a bridge between your soul and the world. It’s your truth, told in the way only you can. For those of you teetering on the fence of narrative choices, remember: the goal is genuine connection, not cold, hard fact. If you ever find yourself torn between raw details and narrative finesse, know that I’m here, ready to guide and assist.
