I sometimes feel like that Ancient Greek lass, the one accused of opening a box and releasing all the wickedness in the world through her curiosity and wilfulness. As a writer, I just want to have a peek, explore a situation, find out what is in that box or jar, see what might be revealed. I open the box, and look at its contents carefully. I lay them out in some sort of order, try to understand them and then find the words to name what I see. But then, suddenly, hurt and angry wasps are buzzing about my head. I didn’t mean any harm – I just wanted to look – but something has been stirred up, something out of my control has been released.
Given the disturbance that can be unleashed – and given that the writer wants to survive such disturbance – it’s clear that the ethics of opening boxes need to be thought through. The problems arise from the fact that whether it is novels, nonfiction, memoir, scripts or poetry, the stuff of literature is no more nor less than life on earth – my life, your life, the lives of everyone a writer knows or can imagine. The unavoidable reality is that writers use other people’s lives. And other people, understandably, don’t necessarily like it.
The specific ethical issues include invasion of privacy, damage to others’ lives, relationships and reputations, power imbalances between writer and subject, and whether you have the right to tell a particular story or not.
I write and teach narrative nonfiction and memoir where the ethical issues of writing “true stories” can be fraught. Can we write about a sister with a mental illness, a mother who neglected us, an ex-husband who betrayed us? Are there some rules, or do we rely on each writer’s moral compass being reasonably sound? A starting point for me is that telling the truth matters for both readers and writers.
Finding my truth and the words to say it is the centre of what I try to do. Why would I go through years of trouble and effort to write bullshit fairy-floss? (Apologies to those who enjoy fairy-floss in various flavours.) As a reader too, the first thing I rely on when I read is that the writer will communicate her truth. I want to know, more than anything, how someone else sees the world – what they observe, think, believe about the unfathomable mystery of being here. I want to know what they actually think, not what they should think.
But does that mean a writer has a free pass to open whatever box comes her way? And if she does, how does she ethically use what she finds?
To be honest, I don’t want to make rules about what anyone can and can’t do, but I do have a set of “Notes to self” I use for navigating the complicated terrain of ethical writing about other people.
My first note – try to be more honest about myself than about anyone else.
Next, check my motives. I don’t mean literary motivations, such as the structure needs it, but personal intentions. All memoirists probably have some non-literary intentions – to honour someone, to criticise, to give thanks. What’s the reason for revealing this piece of dirty underwear? If the story and themes concern dirty underwear then by all means reveal it, but if the reason is to embarrass or inflict pain then its inclusion ought to be reconsidered. What is my intention? Answering this question truthfully clarifies writing motives. Truth matters, but as the American memoirist Annie Dillard said, “Writing is an art, not a martial art.”
Then, weigh up its importance. This includes its emotional importance and its narrative or thematic importance. Does my story need the revelation about Aunt Kate’s teenage lover? Perhaps yes, if it shaped my own sense of sexuality; perhaps yes, if it affected the family dynamic. If it’s a sensational but off-topic story, perhaps it should be cut.
Next, consider how many people it may distress (include myself in this tally!). This is not to say to avoid the truth if the numbers are too high and the disruption too great, but to walk into the fray with eyes open. When Ann Patchett wrote Truth and Beauty, her beautiful exploration of her friendship with the poet Lucy Grealy, Grealy’s family fiercely attacked Patchett, even though she had been rigorously fair and loving in her portrait of her friend. Each writer needs to weigh up for herself whether they are ready for the storm.
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Next, inform myself about all the issues surrounding the story especially if it involves a power imbalance. In fact, the writer always has more power in the sense that she has control over the narrative, but if, for example, I’m writing about people from a different cultural background, then research the issues. I may need to ask permission to write about certain practices or revelations.
Be aware of the sense of ownership people feel over events they have experienced. The ownership of stories is a complex area particularly when it involves differences of culture, gender, ability or colour. Question my position – there are no easy answers.
Consider changing enough details to obscure the identity of whomever I’m writing about. They will still know it is my interpretation of them – and possibly will be upset, but I will not have exposed them to the reading public.
Remember the unreliability of memory. Although memory is often the only truth I have, it is manifestly not a totally reliable witness. All of us are made of our memories – they are the fabric of ourselves and it feels like a betrayal of self to question memory – but allow for others to have a different memory and a different interpretation of what happened that day. Do not be adamant that I am right. My version may be truthful, but so is theirs.
Finally, and again, try to be more honest about myself than about anyone else.
I should admit that none of these “notes to self” have necessarily saved me from the wasps – but clarifying the ethics of what I’m doing has given me a steady place to stand. As playwright David Mamet said, “Our effect is not for us to know; it is not in our control. Only our intention is.”