>  related that's
> actually useful>

Aw shucks.

>  >if something happens to me, I own the interpretation of
> what happened, right?
>
> I think so.  "What are we but our memories?" someone wrote.
>  And so that's
> a part of your microcode.  Can't help it if others saw the
> same events
> differently, as long as you're honest with yourself.

Otherwise, what the heck is the purpose of living a lot of life, eh
what? I mean, when I really think about the fact that I was 18 and the
actress was 28 and sneaking behind her boyfriend's back to see me ...
I think, "What did I go and do that for?" Well, heck -- I'm an artist,
eh? The reason I did it (I tell myself in moments of guilt-ridden
nostalgia) is that I wanted to take a bite out of life for later
material. Nothing dumber sounding than a writer trying to catch a
sentiment on paper what they never done gone and actually felt, smelt,
or dealt.

But it comes with a certain sense of betrayal. Maybe there is a
statute of limitations on when these things are no longer
deep-dark-secrets? It took me many years to put that experience on
paper.

>  >If Mary and I had an affair when I was 18, and she was 28 -- am I
>  >allowed to fictionalize it and almost tell it word for
> word -- or can
>  >she sue me? What amounts to reasonable care in hiding her identity
>
> That's a real gray area.  I think the story could be told
> without making it
> that clear who the principals were, except to those
> principals.  And can
> they sue you?  They can try, I suppose, but wouldn't that just call
> attention to the situation?  Whereas if they say nothing,
> then no one but a
> few insiders will know who it was about.  Tough one.

Oh, how many 28 year olds you figure I've gone and run around with
when I was but 8 and 10 years of age? ;-) Well, there was the woman
when I was 16, the one with the 3 year old kid, but let's not even go
there.

And yes -- I can't imagine that it would make ANY sense to make noise
about it. Nobody but I know who SHE is, but maybe the boyfriend (now
her husband, say, and father of umpteen of her kids) would tune in and
say, "Hey, Mary (not her name), didn't you know a young guy named
Quinn back in the late 80's? I thought you said he was just a friend?
What's this in his novel about ...."

Of course, in the novel, the older woman is NOT seeing anyone else. Is
that enough of a change to obscure the reality? I could always claim I
didn't know about him. Hey, I didn't write about him in the novel --
so I *must* not have known about him, right? Plausible denial?

A real problem with fictionalizing life is that the line between what
happened and what didn't gets really blurry to readers.

Yes, I left home at 18.

Yes, I seduced a woman who was involved in another relationship.

Yes, I worked in a certain bookstore.

Yes, I maimed a childhood friend when I was 10 by launching a bullet
shell into his head with a clay pigeon launcher.

Yes, a dog pissed on my handwritten manuscript.

But no, I never killed nobody or jumped in the Seine to try to kill
myself or swapped identities. THOSE are lies. The REST is almost true.
Almost.

Do non-writers realize that 50% of something can be based on truth,
whereas the other 50% can be pure fabrication for dramatic effect?

The only way any of it makes any sense is if "I own what I live." This
means, of course, that those writers who know me have every right to
write their own versions of the events, even if I come out stinking,
right? If I own what I live, then others own those parts of the living
that crossed their paths. How would the shoe feel on the other foot?

Eek.

--
Quinn Tyler Jackson


--- Rachel's Little NET2FIDO Gate v 0.9.9.8 Alpha