Ken Budd describes the challenges of writing and researching in the wake of his father’s death:
Writing a memoir is a selfish act. For the memoir to work, to truly be alive, the honesty of the writing must outweigh the feelings of your subjects. As the central figure, you have to write what scares you: the drama resides in the dark places where you’re least comfortable. And that means exposing yourself. It’s like ripping off the front of your house and saying, “O.K., here we are, take a look — I’ll be in the shower if you want a closer view.” If you can’t do that — if you’re unwilling to bleed, naked, on the page — why write memoir?
This honesty isn’t easy for friends and family, who probably weren’t eager to be “characters.” But the living can at least retaliate. A fellow writer once told me about a friend who released a memoir. “It’s really good,” she said. “He shares all these wonderful stories about his family. None of them will speak to him anymore, but it’s a really good book.”
The dead can’t retaliate. And I didn’t just write about my father’s life — I probed that life. Our relationship was strong, but parts of him were unattainable to me. He was a workaholic. He spent long hours at the office. Like me, he internalized his thoughts. So I compensated by interviewing his friends and co-workers, who told me stories I’d never heard. A former boss revealed how he and my father laid off 30 workers, agonizing over the horrible task. … Once that narrative goes from the mind to the page, the dead can’t correct you; they can’t say, “Wait — that’s not how I remember it…”
Recent Dish on memoirs here.
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