What do any of us know about one another? And what does a writer know? Writing, perhaps, breeds even more distortions and uncertainties…. The ambiguity persists.
Sybille Bedford, Quicksands
Recently I had to look through Lessons in Taxidermy to prepare for the UK release. I did not remember exactly what was included- there were a few discarded chapters and many incidental cuts, revisions, last minute additions. The final version is also substantially different from the stolen book, which is more clear in my mind because of the loss.
I expected to be mildly baffled to read the book years after writing it. I would not have predicted that the most difficult thing about reviewing the material is seeing my friends appear as characters in a narrative.
Of course I changed many names, particularly in the segments concerning my early life. Or where naming someone would start a blood feud. Several people generously gave permission for me to use their real names. Many, however, are missing.
It is difficult to write truthfully about other people. I tried to be respectful. I resisted the urge to settle scores. Particularly when describing episodes that happened before anyone knew me as a writer, I protected the privacy of the individuals concerned.
But putting real people on a page is inherently problematic. Choices are made about what to say, how to say it. Because Taxidermy is a book about danger I selected stories that illustrate certain points. What I put in the book is not necessarily the thing I remember best about any given year or person.
When I talk to Ana Helena nowadays I do not think about how she helped fix my broken body; we are too busy chatting about our hectic new lives. We meet erratically in odd places and I see her as a catalyst, someone to appreciate in the moment and learn from.
If Stevie is around I do not reflect on her accident- I just enjoy her presence and laugh. When I am far away I think about how she used to cheerfully act as my date for work parties and weddings, about the adventures around town and on tour.
James has been mixed up in my life for nearly twenty years and he says I am not a fiction writer because I am obsessed with the truth. He points out that I have always needed proof of the relative meaning of any given experience. He is correct; in the past I always walked away from things I did not understand. I’ve never been afraid of hard work but I always needed to know the plan. My tolerance of ambiguity is a recent development.
But nonfiction is just another kind of script – facts can be presented to support whatever version of the truth is being promoted. James is arguably one of the most important people in my life but he doesn’t show up by name in the book at all. Not because he isn’t important – in fact, he was one of the most visible and significant people in my teens and early 20’s. There are certainly stories worthy of publication from those years. They just didn’t belong in this book.
Most of my life remains strictly off the record; I do not provide a running tally of everything I think and do. Instead I write about the episodes that strike me as pertinent to a given topic.
I have nothing particularly wise to say on the topic. It was just very strange to read the book.