I struggle with
nonfictional narratives—be they memoir, historical, or informal essays in the
vein of David Sedaris or Annie Dillard.
Reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
recently, I was finally able to articulate why: I struggle with the suspension
of belief. If the narrative recounted is
supposed to be personal and “true”, then I don’t feel like I can properly
connect to it without disturbing it. In
other words, if what Dillard is writing is a factual account, then I can nod,
sympathize, say that must have been wonderful or that must have been awful, but
I can’t make it my own without feeling like I’m trespassing on someone else’s
property. The same is true when a friend
tells me a non-fictional story or I read a blog about someone’s day—I care,
engage, but the story is never mine. I
never laugh at the non-fictional butt of jokes or sympathize with the
non-fictional villain the way I would were they fictional. I suspend judgment. I let words be as literal as possible. I pretend to see authorial intention. In fact, my best friends and I are quick to
turn out non-fictional stories into a series of what-ifs and imaginary
alternatives. That’s how we engage. That’s how we connect.
Unless it’s in a
conversation about craft, I never want to know what is “non-fictional” about a
piece. Leave it out. All of this is to say I felt great relief when
a friend told me that Pilgrim is
largely concocted and exaggerated and I therefore have a green light to read it
as fiction—thank God! No more need to
suspend belief.
