"She thinks she has me."
Dec. 30th, 2008 06:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morrigirlI just started reading one of my Christmas presents, The Mistress's Daughter by A. M. Homes. It's a memoir detailing the author's adoption and the experience of meeting her birth parents as an adult. On page 20 Homes receives her first written correspondence from her birth mother. On page 26 they have their first phone conversation. More than a little overwhelmed by the depth of her birth mother's excitement and sadness, Homes purposely withholds information about herself. She tells her birth mother that she is a writer, but does not reveal her last name. On page 36, Homes's birth mother calls her up and says, "I found out who you are, A. M. Homes. I'm reading your books." Homes writes,
It is the only time in my life that I have regretted being a writer. She has something of mine and she thinks she has me.
Rewind to last Saturday night. I finished reading a wonderful book by one of my very favorite authors, Emma Donoghue's "Landing." The story details the long distance relationship between two woman, one of whom lives in Canada, the other, in Ireland. I know Emma Donoghue is Irish, yet in her author blurb on the back cover it says that she lives in London, Ontario. I am intrigued. The dedication page reads, To Chris, worth any journey. A little nosing around on Donoghue's official website confirms that Chris Roulston is the name of her long-time partner. The site's FAQ page includes the question "Why did you move to Canada in 1998?" Donoghue writes that she once answered this question at a reading by saying, "Love."
Now, I think I know something about her. I think I know all about her courtship with Chris. After all, I just read a whole book about it, didn't I? Since "Landing" is about an Irish woman and a Canadian who fall in love, and Donoghue is an Irish woman who fell in love with a Canadian, the entire book must be nothing more or less than a thinly fictionalized account of what actually occurred between Donoghue and Roulston, right?
I don't know that. I don't know how much of the story was made up. I don't know if Donoghue and Roulston are anything like the two paramours in the book. It is wildly presumptuous of me to think I know anything about any writer based solely on what I pick up from their literary output.
Yet, I, and millions of other readers, do this all the time. We take something we've read and try to figure out what it says about the author; their fears, their joys, their subconscious Freudian architecture. Reality television coupled with the resurgence of creative nonfiction and confessional writing lead the average media consumer to believe that what we call fiction is never quite fiction. Some aspect of it is always based on reality. Literary biography and critical theory have taught us former English majors that if you read far enough into "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" you'll come away with a good idea of, not just Sylvia Plath's relationship with her father, but with her husband Ted Hughes.
When we read something that moves us we don't just want to enjoy it as a piece of art that is whole unto itself. We want to give it context. We want to know how it was made. Who or what inspired the writer to write this? Why did the writer feel compelled to tell this particular story, write about this specific topic? What emotional investment did they have in it?
I flash back to October when an old friend of mine asked me point blank who "Rapacity" was about. I refused to say. The information was not essential for her understanding or enjoyment of the poem. But, because it struck her, she felt the need to know more about the poem. She wanted to place it in the context of an actual relationship, even though I doubt the relationship I wrote about in "Rapacity" ever actually existed.
It makes me wonder what the hell people think they know about me based on my paltry poetic output. What does anyone think they know about my relationship with my mother? What assumptions are people going to make about me based on the weird poems I've got forthcoming in 2009; the ones I have no desire whatsoever to discuss or explain even though I know there are certain people to whom I'll have to clarify specific points? What about my Novella-Thingy? I know I'm gonna have to clarify the shit out of that son of a bitch should it ever see the light of day. How do I explain to someone thirsting for context that, yes, the piece is based on an actual event in my life, but it also came entirely out of my head?
She has something of mine and she thinks she has me. That sentence just brought into focus how little I, or anyone, can assume about a writer based on what they write. It's horrible to admit, but I've never really thought about it before. I've just let myself go on believing that I know things about people I know nothing about.
It is the only time in my life that I have regretted being a writer. She has something of mine and she thinks she has me.
Rewind to last Saturday night. I finished reading a wonderful book by one of my very favorite authors, Emma Donoghue's "Landing." The story details the long distance relationship between two woman, one of whom lives in Canada, the other, in Ireland. I know Emma Donoghue is Irish, yet in her author blurb on the back cover it says that she lives in London, Ontario. I am intrigued. The dedication page reads, To Chris, worth any journey. A little nosing around on Donoghue's official website confirms that Chris Roulston is the name of her long-time partner. The site's FAQ page includes the question "Why did you move to Canada in 1998?" Donoghue writes that she once answered this question at a reading by saying, "Love."
Now, I think I know something about her. I think I know all about her courtship with Chris. After all, I just read a whole book about it, didn't I? Since "Landing" is about an Irish woman and a Canadian who fall in love, and Donoghue is an Irish woman who fell in love with a Canadian, the entire book must be nothing more or less than a thinly fictionalized account of what actually occurred between Donoghue and Roulston, right?
I don't know that. I don't know how much of the story was made up. I don't know if Donoghue and Roulston are anything like the two paramours in the book. It is wildly presumptuous of me to think I know anything about any writer based solely on what I pick up from their literary output.
Yet, I, and millions of other readers, do this all the time. We take something we've read and try to figure out what it says about the author; their fears, their joys, their subconscious Freudian architecture. Reality television coupled with the resurgence of creative nonfiction and confessional writing lead the average media consumer to believe that what we call fiction is never quite fiction. Some aspect of it is always based on reality. Literary biography and critical theory have taught us former English majors that if you read far enough into "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" you'll come away with a good idea of, not just Sylvia Plath's relationship with her father, but with her husband Ted Hughes.
When we read something that moves us we don't just want to enjoy it as a piece of art that is whole unto itself. We want to give it context. We want to know how it was made. Who or what inspired the writer to write this? Why did the writer feel compelled to tell this particular story, write about this specific topic? What emotional investment did they have in it?
I flash back to October when an old friend of mine asked me point blank who "Rapacity" was about. I refused to say. The information was not essential for her understanding or enjoyment of the poem. But, because it struck her, she felt the need to know more about the poem. She wanted to place it in the context of an actual relationship, even though I doubt the relationship I wrote about in "Rapacity" ever actually existed.
It makes me wonder what the hell people think they know about me based on my paltry poetic output. What does anyone think they know about my relationship with my mother? What assumptions are people going to make about me based on the weird poems I've got forthcoming in 2009; the ones I have no desire whatsoever to discuss or explain even though I know there are certain people to whom I'll have to clarify specific points? What about my Novella-Thingy? I know I'm gonna have to clarify the shit out of that son of a bitch should it ever see the light of day. How do I explain to someone thirsting for context that, yes, the piece is based on an actual event in my life, but it also came entirely out of my head?
She has something of mine and she thinks she has me. That sentence just brought into focus how little I, or anyone, can assume about a writer based on what they write. It's horrible to admit, but I've never really thought about it before. I've just let myself go on believing that I know things about people I know nothing about.
