CME- Creative Non-fiction
I call them reflections...
On
Truth
The confliction of truth in creative nonfiction is very real to me.Even recently, I have pondered the concept in relation to my own writing.There are times when I worry that what is or was my reality may not be the same reality as others who were involved in the same situation.For the most part, these are family members who may eventually read what I have written.I frequently wonder, fearfully, if they will accept some aspects as my recollection or become defensive, claiming that I have fabricated bits and pieces of my work.There are some parts of our history that some may be unable or unwilling to uncover and admit.The mind is the most powerful thing we own and, I believe, it has the ability to shut out and/or enhance certain situations depending on one's own needs.In my opinion, it is important to remember that memory is not concrete.Memories may evolve, shrink, or stretch over time, causing shifts in ones recollection.The way that my sister viewed an occurrence in our childhood was, most likely, very different than what I recorded in my mind. There is no doubt that years later, through growth, maturity, and experience, our perspectives have changed. This lends to another view of that same situation.
I find it difficult to rationalize the argument that memoirs can be fabricated or false due to the fact that no one can truly know what you saw through your eyes; felt, smelt, and tasted through your senses; or captured within your mind. Perhaps what was most important and pronounced in a situation for you was only a miniscule detail to someone else, causing them to lend it less attention and therefore, making your vivid details and descriptions seem exaggerated or even false. Unless the audience can place themselves within the thoughts and memories of the writer, they cannot see what is seen through the eyes of the author nor can they experience the sensations and emotions in just the same way or appreciate them in the same way.
The confliction of truth in creative nonfiction is very real to me.Even recently, I have pondered the concept in relation to my own writing.There are times when I worry that what is or was my reality may not be the same reality as others who were involved in the same situation.For the most part, these are family members who may eventually read what I have written.I frequently wonder, fearfully, if they will accept some aspects as my recollection or become defensive, claiming that I have fabricated bits and pieces of my work.There are some parts of our history that some may be unable or unwilling to uncover and admit.The mind is the most powerful thing we own and, I believe, it has the ability to shut out and/or enhance certain situations depending on one's own needs.In my opinion, it is important to remember that memory is not concrete.Memories may evolve, shrink, or stretch over time, causing shifts in ones recollection.The way that my sister viewed an occurrence in our childhood was, most likely, very different than what I recorded in my mind. There is no doubt that years later, through growth, maturity, and experience, our perspectives have changed. This lends to another view of that same situation.
I find it difficult to rationalize the argument that memoirs can be fabricated or false due to the fact that no one can truly know what you saw through your eyes; felt, smelt, and tasted through your senses; or captured within your mind. Perhaps what was most important and pronounced in a situation for you was only a miniscule detail to someone else, causing them to lend it less attention and therefore, making your vivid details and descriptions seem exaggerated or even false. Unless the audience can place themselves within the thoughts and memories of the writer, they cannot see what is seen through the eyes of the author nor can they experience the sensations and emotions in just the same way or appreciate them in the same way.
I find it important to acknowledge that Matt was not as perfect as I naively thought when writing this piece. He grew abusive and eventually was brushed out of our lives with a careful hand.
