“No one can be damaged by someone telling his own life story”

Posted on April 27, 2012 by

Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea and focus of criticism over truth in memoir (about which I blogged previously),  is back in the news–and the courtroom. Four people who bought Mortenson’s books have brought a lawsuit against Mortenson, co-author David Relin and Mortenson’s charity, the Central Asia Institute. The plaintiffs have asked a federal judge to certify their lawsuit as a class action suit making everyone who purchased the books a plaintiff.

The Huffington Post reported on April 18 that Penguin Group (USA) attorney Jonathan Herman has asked the judge to dismiss the lawsuit. U.S. District Judge Sam Haddon did not make an immediate ruling. The Huffington Post goes on to report:

Penguin Group’s attorney said the proper place for someone to object to the books is in the sphere of public debate, not in a courtroom to be prosecuted by self-appointed “truth police.”… A First Amendment expert called the lawsuit absurd, regardless of whether the books contain fabrications….

Mortenson did not defame or harm anyone in his books and, barring narrow exceptions like national secrets, he can write what he wants and does not have to justify it, said Wayne Giampietro, a Chicago attorney and general counsel of the First Amendment Lawyers Association.

“It is what it is: Here’s a book. If you want to buy it, buy it. If you don’t, don’t,” Giampietro said.

As a memoir writer and self-appointed commentator on the craft, I follow a credo, “Do what you will–but do it with transparency, and harm none with your words.” By “transparency” I mean you should state the approach you have taken regarding truthfulness. One of my favorites is the Author’s Note written by Gabrielle Hamilton, author of  Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef in which she explains that  she has conflated timelines, omitted certain people, occasionally sidestepping literal truth in service of a story well told. (Read the full author’s note at the end of my blog post here.) I confess, I’ve become a collector of these disclaimers–a genre as subtle and interesting as memoir itself.

By “harm none” I mean avoid statements that might cause pain to those you care about, which should include the trusty readers out there who only know you through the words you’ve written down. As Judith Barrington wrote in Writing the Memoir, “Each of us must balance the reasons for writing a story against the harm that might be done to someone else.” Strive for compassion toward all characters in your story. If you really want to get somebody’s goat–don’t say hateful things about them, just leave them out!

The question of Mortenson’s truth (or lack of it) gets at the hard work you take on when you write about your life. You can’t possibly write a completely true memoir. But you can avoid misleading people or otherwise causing harm. After all, you don’t want an entire class of people–readers–clamoring for their time and money back.

Photo from LA Times article 4/18/12 “Do ‘Three Cups of Tea’ readers deserve their money back?” read their story here.
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Italy’s Festa della Liberazione, an occasion for action

Posted on April 25, 2012 by

Today is April 25, the Festival of Liberation in Italy, celebrating the end of World War II.

Four years ago I was celebrating in Cinque Terre. Today, my heart is breaking for the friends I made there and the devastation of their unique landscape, a UNESCO-recognized World Heritage site of terraced cliffs that  “contain more stone than the Great Wall of China” according to local sources. Or did, before they came down following the torrential rains that fell on October 25, 2011. Large sections of the centuries-old retaining walls washed away, and several villages filled two-stories-high with mud and debris.

I wrote about my visit to Cinque Terre and published that travel memoir as an example in my book, Write Your Travel Memoirs: 5 Steps to transform your travel experiences into compelling essays. I’m excerpting a few paragraphs from that memoir here, to introduce you to my friends and my “real home”.

Several villages in the Cinque Terre are still far from restored, and those local business-people are without income until tourists return. The village of  Vernazza was particularly hard hit. My heart aches for the people trying to get through this while Italy is mired in debt and unable to provide government aid.

I am donating all proceeds from sales of this book on Amazon in 2012 to Rick Steves’ “Save Vernazza” fund. I hope some readers of “True Stories Well Told” might feel inspired to purchase a copy, knowing you will help the people I’ve written about here.

 “Finding Our Place in Cinque Terre”

Optimism wrapped me like a sunny cloak, but dread pulled on its hem. Arrivals make me nervous. The problem, when I have planned a trip and finally arrive at the place I’ve been fantasizing about, is inserimento—insertion—making the transition from traveler to temporary resident.

How do you sync up with the place you’ve reached? What is its story, and what is your place in it? When expectations crash into reality, how do you handle the impact? If insertion goes badly, you soon feel like a walking wallet to be harvested of your cash, rewarded at worst with Chinese-made souvenirs or at best a few local products. If insertion goes well, you are living a new life you were always meant for. Either can influence your mood for days. On a short vacation there’s a lot riding on inserimento.

* * *

At midday the train releases us into the main street of Vernazza with four tour groups, mostly school children. We bob down the street, carried along by their tide. Jim and I are the only ones with suitcases—me with a small roller bag, Jim with a grip, our messenger bags and that’s it—we travel light. But even this load is heavy enough that our first thought is lodging. In these crowds, this might be a competition sport.

A small man materializes at Jim’s elbow asking if perhaps we are looking for a room. “What gave us away?” jokes Jim. There’s something instantly likeable about the little man’s smile. The rest of our deal-making is accomplished with relaxed humor, because we all know that we will take whatever he is offering. It turns out to be a little apartment just a few steps away, which he will give us at a good price because he has just repainted the kitchen; it can’t be used. “Good price, but one night only,” he says: day after tomorrow is the festival, and the room is already booked. He is referring to the Festival of Liberation, April 25, a holiday celebrating the end of World War II.

* * *

We leave our bags in our new home and head out to find lunch, flowing with the crowd downhill. Vernazza, like each of the five Cinque Terre towns, has been built against the two sides of a ravine flanking a brook. Sometime in its history the brook was covered over so what were once merely sidewalks down both sides became a paved street broadening and slanting to the west. In Vernazza (as we’ll discover in other villages we visit) that sloping main street terminates in a plaza and a port of sorts. With seas too rough and terrain too steep for harbor berths, the fishermen use a gantry system to raise boats from the waterfront into the plaza where they drop them onto wheeled frames, then roll them home to park outside their doorways.

[Picture what happens when torrential rains meet that constrained watercourse.]

Thousands of day-trippers are pouring in. Boats already crowd the main street. It’s a canyon four stories deep, walled with pastel stucco buildings accented with grids of green window shutters. A cacophony of crowd noise echoes around us. High-pitched children’s squeals and a toy-train whistle rise above the roar.

We shuffle shoulder to shoulder toward the plaza surrounded by people descending from the train station. Even more people are spurting out of cracks between the buildings. I spot the white/red paint slashes that are the markings of the C.A.I. trails (Club Alpino Italiano) this area is famous for. Hikers who began the day in villages north or south of Vernazza are arriving, just in time for lunch.

* * *

From the crowds and merriment, you would think this was the festival day already.  The student groups are chattering. A saxophonist is playing for tips. A national news crew is doing a “first beautiful day of Spring” story, stopping people for interviews. I overhear someone say this is the first day the sun has shown in over a month.

Ordinarily Jim and I hate crowds; we dislike finding that we have chosen the same thing at the same time thousands of others have. It offends our sense of ourselves as special, apart (and no doubt better) than the masses. Can we control our knee-jerk reaction? To arrive at noon in a place awash in its maximum capacity of day-trippers is to risk feeling alienated.

Here is where our inserimento will go well or badly, which will inflect the rest of our trip. Here in Vernazza the story-in-progress is mass delirium generated by unaccustomed warmth, sun, and scenery. In addition to the school groups there are couples and families who woke finally to a promise of Spring in the air and blew off whatever responsibilities to head for the Cinque Terre for the day… and who could blame them. The universal festival mood affects us too. We feel at home, and find we don’t really mind our thousands of guests.

* * *

The days run together, but the faces don’t. Standing out in the blur of scenery and snacking are the moments of interaction, not just with the locals, but with the “United Nations of Cinque Terre,” the visitors whose paths cross ours. We came here for the scenery—which has turned out to be more about people-watching than botanizing.

The first interactions were about lodging and food, the basic themes of life. But here, even those are conducted with a note of personal interest; we do not feel like wallets being harvested. Maybe later in the season, when the local people have grown tired of their daily invaders, their hospitality will falter. Today we are greeted as warmly as if we had brought Spring in our luggage.

Late in the afternoon on our first day in Vernazza, we discovered the “Pirati di Cinque Terre,” where we were drawn to the cases displaying tiny marzipan sculptures simulating mussels, tomatoes, hot peppers, even little chicken carcasses. “We haven’t seen pastries like these since Sicily,” Jim says. “And I am Sicilian,” replies the madcap man behind the counter. He turns deciding what to order into a comedy act. I ask his name: “Borat.” I tell him we were admiring the dessert case because Jim is a pastry chef. “You must come to work here,” Borat responds. My mind trips out on the possibilities of that.

In the morning we go back to the Pirates for breakfast, but now the man behind the counter is dour; could our “Borat” be manic-depressive? No, the laughing Sicilian reappears and introduces us to his twin, Massimo. “He is the serious one. I am the handsome one.” Our affection deepens for these Sicilians who are trying to insert themselves into the business scene of Vernazza. I suspect mistrust of newcomers from outside has denied the Pirates a location nearer the heart of the village. The Sicilians’ restaurant sits at the upper gate holding back the cars (except for deliveries between 8 and 10a.m.) But the pirates’ pastry tricks far surpass the talents of the natives, and their whacky patter pleases the tourists. Rick Steves wrote favorably about them, which is good for business.

* * *

According to Rick Steves’ “Save Vernazza” website, it is uncertain when (or if) the Pirati di Cinque Terre will reopen. Please help me help them.

-Sarah White

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A Paean to My Oaxacan Queen

Posted on April 19, 2012 by

Some readers of “True Stories Well Told” may remember April Gutierrez Manning–she participated in a few of the writing classes at the South Madison Library, early on. She blogged about her Mexican Adventure, moving with her husband and baby to the home of his Oaxacan parents, and What Happened Next. A fantastic & heartwrenching tale that will, we hope, be the winner of the Glamour Magazine “My Real-Life Story” contest (winners to be announced in June) but I digress.

April is back in the U.S., trying to work the system to get her husband legally back into the country, where she and Felix (now a toddler) and his new little sister Etta May are making it day by day. For a dip into what THAT’S like, check out this post on her blog, Aye Chihuahua… the power of April’s writing has always floored me. This one lays me flat out on the carpet.

Carpets! That’s what I set out to write about.

Back in Oaxaca, Cesar’s family makes rugs.  Cesar and April are selling these on etsy, to help pay for lawyers, etc. They specialize in authentic Zapotec Mexican rugs with a modern twist.  You can even order a custom rug — Green Bay Packer colors are popular.

Read an essay April wrote in one of those early classes here… “The Upstairs Library.”

Think about buying a nice Zapotec carpet for your home or a gift. And…

¡Tenga un día bueno!

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A Train Ride to the Past

Posted on April 12, 2012 by

By Sheila Spear

The train wasn’t like the ones I remembered.  Those thundering giants commanded respect, their brasses gleaming, wheels churning, steam venting on all sides, clouds of smoke streaming from the chimney, and the whistle giving off its curdling yodel as it approached a crossing nearby.  This one was a sleek, quiet and infinitely less interesting, electric model which would turn no heads and cause little excitement.  But it served the purpose so I climbed aboard.

On my way back to London from the Devonshire coast, I had been visiting childhood friends. I was on the train before it occurred to me that I had never traveled this route before.  Strange, because I had grown up along side it many years earlier. With my siblings and friends I had often clambered up the embankment, through weeds and brambles, slipping and tripping on stones and debris of all kinds, to get a look at the trains close up.  But I had never thought to visit the village since we moved, nor previously had any occasion to ride the train past the cottage.

I grew more and more nervous as I began to recognize familiar landscapes and peered closely at every landmark as it flashed by. I went to stand in the corridor by an open window, my camera at the ready, to take a photo of Rose Cottage as we passed.  Long forgotten places came into view.  The town of Chard where I would wait for my mother, sometimes for hours, as she attended District Council meetings.  Wayford Manor, where every spring we would walk through the woods filled with blooming rhododendrons and camellias from around the world, and the manor house itself, which had the largest magnolia tree I had ever seen. The Hardy cottage, where, people said, Thomas Hardy was reputed to have lived and written for a while.  Now we are really close, almost there.

I knew exactly what I was going to see.  I had a clear picture in my mind of the view of the cottage from the railway line.  The end house in a row of three thatched cottages, it lay across a narrow road and up a short gravel track. But suddenly  – what was that?  The speeding train didn’t hesitate.  But I did… and missed it.  Could that have been it?  A rough squat building, thatched roof, tiny garden – yes.  But … but … it was so close.  I could almost have touched it.  Did we really live that close to the railway line?  What about that yawning distance that I remember so clearly?

Early memories may not lie, but they retain a child’s eye view, a view of the world from close to the ground.  The different scale of my adult eye came as a shock – and with it a sense of loss, and of resistance.  My mental picture was obliged, reluctantly, to move over, to give way and make room for the new.   Discovering the disjuncture between what I remembered and what I saw set me off on a search for those memories.  I had a new desire to make up for my neglect of decades, and wanted to recapture some of what I had left behind.

I set in motion a plan to visit the places where I had grown up the next time I was in England.  In the meantime I could explore my father’s photo albums.   An avid photographer, he had kept his albums meticulously, along with a leather-bound notebook in which he recorded date, place, and people in each and every photo.*  And there was a photo of me in the tiny front garden, in a tin bath tub along with a rather large dog, naked as the day I was born – and blissfully ignoring a passing train a few yards behind me.

I have no memory of that moment, or of being that child.  As I looked through the photos I realized they did not coincide with the moments I remembered.  I vaguely recalled that dog, and certainly knew the cat in another photo, for she had a very special place in my mental album.  But there were other moments, not in my father’s photos.  As I wandered through the cottage in my mind, I found that almost every nook and cranny held a story, a snapshot, each tinged with some message, some episode that held a particular meaning for me and me alone.

*   *    *

*Since I was born during the second world war, a time of shortages of all kinds, there are not many of me as a baby.  But once the war was over, Dad made up for this, and I found lots of a chubby little girl, evidently accustomed to running around outdoors with no clothes on.

Rose Cottage, Sommerset, England, on “Victory for Europe” Day (May 7, 1945). Sheila writes, “This is the first time I’ve ever noticed that one of the flags is the Stars and Stripes. My father was a U.S. citizen.”
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“Autobiography is like chocolate for the brain.”

Posted on April 5, 2012 by

I’ve just finished reading Dr. Gene Cohen’s The Mature Mind: The Positive Power of the Aging Brain. Talk about sweet food for thought!

In Dr. Cohen’s book, published in 2005, he teaches us much about the rich possibilities for the life of the mind in the later stages of adulthood. He’s identified four phases of development in later life that, if we recognize and work with their strengths, allow us to turn life after 50 into a time of growth and creative fulfillment. These include Midlife Reevaluation, Liberation, Summing Up, and Encore.

The third, “Summing Up,” he describes as a phase in which we experience the urge to review life and in the process, give to those around us. Autobiography is the natural expression of this urge.

Cohen is a brain scientist, so he explains this in terms of brain studies. You may or may not be fascinated to know that in later life you begin using both brain hemispheres, with better coordination between them. Cohen writes:

I hypothesize that using both hippocampi during recall of life events creates a richer, more vivid experience because the brain is drawing on a broader palette of resources for the task. The intuitive, holistic, and nonverbal brain skills that typically reside in the right hemisphere can bring an added benefit to the task of memory recall. Using both hippocampi may also simply make recollection itself a more vivid and pleasurable activity. I think the brain, in effect, relishes the chance to deal with autobiography in later life–and to do so using both engines, so to speak. I see autobiography and the larger processes and behaviors of summing up as a bit like chocolate to the brain in later life–a sumptuous activity.”

Reading Cohen’s words, I get excited about discovering the developmental intelligence that comes with richer life experience–and applying it to my writing. You too?

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Upcoming Workshops Late Spring 2012

Posted on April 1, 2012 by

“Remember to Write” starts 4/19 in South Madison

In this workshop we’ll spend six evenings discussing how to structure your stories, how to organize your project, and how to deal ethically with writing about living people. Participants read their work, and share feedback with each other in a supportive environment.

This workshop meets for 6 Thursday evenings, April 19-May 24, 5:50-7:50pm at the Goodman South Madison Branch Library, 2222 South Park St. Free. To register, call the library at 266-6395 or click here.

“Put a Little Life in Your Obituary”

How will you be remembered? Every life story deserves a polished telling, but that seldom happens in the stressful time following a death. With a little help, you can write a lively, accurate picture of your life suitable for publication when the time comes. Make the task enjoyable by working on it in a group. In these workshops we’ll explore the revival of interest in obituaries in America, then draft obituaries for ourselves or loved ones, minus only the final details of life’s end.

Madison area:

Wednesday, 4/11 and 4/18, Oregon Senior Center. Meets for 2 Wednesday afternoons, 2:30-4:00, Oregon Senior Center, 219 Park Street, Oregon, Wisconsin. $30.

Wednesday, April 25, UW Mini Course. Campus  4314 Social Science Building, 6-9pm. $24.50. To enroll, click here.

Online:

Mondays, 6/4, 6/11, and 6/18, Story Circle Network. Meets for 3 weeks online.  For more information, click here.

“Write Your Cookbook-Memoir”

Madison:

Memories made around the table are some of our finest. Whether you want to share your own recipes and stories or pass on your family’s food traditions, this class will help you get started. I’ll share readings from food authors, suggest themes, and familiarize you with the steps required and the resources available to help you complete a one-of-a-kind record of your place at life’s table. If you enjoy this “taste” of writing a cookbook-memoir, you’ll want to consider joining my 5-week workshop beginning in September 2012.

Monday 5/7, 6:00pm – 8:00pm, Willy St. Coop East. Registration opens March 20, 2012.

This session is free for Owners and $5 for all others. Payment is required at registeration; please register by stopping at the Willy East Customer Service desk or by calling 251-6776.

 

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Izzy and the Bed

Posted on March 29, 2012 by

By Carolyn May

(Note: I wrote this as a letter from my dog, Izzy, to my daughter’s cat, Elmer.)

Dear Elmer,

We’ve never met. That’s a good thing because I would probably want to chase you and you’d have to give me a big old scratch and some hissing to make me stop.

But still…I want you to feel better about your urinary old-age complications.

So last night I did something you’d approve of.

My mom rarely even lets me get on her bed…and I never get to sleep there. But once in a while I will sneak up there when she’s downstairs brushing her teeth and the gate to the bedroom is open.

Last night was one of those lucky times.

Unfortunately, when I got up there on that bed and started walking around, it kinda felt like I was on the grass….you know….the way my feet sunk into that bed.

So I automatically did what I do on the grass.

I peed.

And it wasn’t just a little squirt. It was a real good puddle. Almost a small lake!! I was so proud of my pee-ability!!

Just then I heard mom coming.

I hopped off…and tiptoed to the corner where my REAL bed is…and I made myself look all innocent and cute.

Why in the world she started calling me a “bad dog” is beyond me. She only uses those two words if I see the butter left on the counter and I help myself—

Mom pulled off the comforter, and the sheets, and the pillowcases, and the memory foam…all soaked in the middle. She took the wet bedding to the basement, put the memory foam in the trash can, and then stood the mattress up beside the bed, ‘cause there was a pretty wet place on that as well.

We slept in the guest room last night, and this morning mom called to see if there’s a fee for the trash people to take away mattresses. There isn’t, and today is the right day for it to be picked up by the big truck.

Then she tried to get it downstairs.

Unfortunately, she lost her grip and it slid down, which looked ok until she tried to pull it around the corner of the stairs and she saw what it did to the wall. Now there was a hole in the wall. And the mattress was stuck.

She called Paul across the street and he came to her rescue.

The mattress is now out on the curb, waiting for pickup.
Mom and me will either sleep in the guest room now or she’ll get a new mattress soon.

And I’m still in the doghouse!!

Love,
Izzy

P.S. Mom says the only good thing is that her old mattress was sunk in the middle and she really needed a better one. But she hadn’t planned on one today!!

I was eager to publish “Izzy and the Bed” because hearing Carolyn’s story gave me new insight into my own dog’s similar behavioral problems. Izzy’s letter allowed me to forgive certain acts that I can now see more from a dog’s perspective, less from an affronted human’s.

Even the lightest of light humor essays can have a profound effect on readers.

-Sarah White

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