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If It’s Written In First Person, It Must Be True
“Oh come on, it’s all based on a true story isn’t it? Come on. Tell me. I know it is.”
I hear this comment often. And now that my novel Letters Between Us has been published by Plain View Press and is going out into the world, some of my preliminary readers, friends, and colleagues are certain that it is an autobiographical novel. Interestingly enough when readers take up works written in first person point of view an incorrect assumption is sometimes made that it’s the voice of the author speaking through the narrator. Because my novel is written in first person, other readers have suggested that I am using the narrator in the novel, Laura Wells, as my persona. After all, she attended Hollywood High School, so did I. She worked in television production, so did I long ago. There are other characteristics we do not share, but you’ll have to read the book to discover what those are besides getting to know me.
Amazing how readers read what they want into a work and believe they are correct no matter what I, or other authors might say about their fiction. My two main character’s names were actually inspired by Katharine (Hepburn) and her dear friend American Express heiress Laura (Harding).
Only because a writer friend of mine who had been close to Hepburn—helping produce some of her movies made for television—thought it would be a nice testament to them and their sixty year friendship. In fact, my two lead characters are nothing like Hepburn and Harding, but I liked the way their two first names looked on the page. Also, I admired Hepburn’s work on film and still relish watching them. So that may dispel any notion of autobiography there. Truth is that although the “I’ in the novel is the protagonist, that “I” is not me, but the voice of a completely made up character struggling with issues I did not necessarily struggle with, but that others may be able to relate to.
The fact is that fiction means “shaping” in Latin. So as an author of fiction I am shaping a story I am telling from a world I know, yes, but not necessarily a world I have lived in. Like any artist using the act of sculpting, I must know just how much to leave intact and just how much to pare down in creating a sense of reality, not my specific reality, but the reality of the characters in the novel. This of course is accomplished through manipulation of literary aspects such as setting, point of view, style, tone, imagery, plot, and so on with the assistance of description. And, as any writer knows, description is only an effective tool on the page if it brings alive the reader’s five senses to savor what has been written. But sometimes boundaries between fact and fiction are blurred creating what is referred to as faction.
I do write fiction and have written and published creative nonfiction so I agree that at times lines between the two become indistinct. And as a writer, I see no difference (as writer John Daniel has said) between what I do in creative nonfiction, narrative essay, dated journal entries, dialogue, faction, or memoir, using the same technical devices as a fiction writer might to tell a story. As far as I am concerned it is all acceptable as long as the text we are reading teaches us how to read it. However, not every reader wants to accept that lesson and prefers to put their own spin on what they are reading and its origins.
The important thing about this entire creative act and the result of its output is that the reader is getting a “good read.” As a reader myself, I want to get lost in someone else’s interpretation of reality, someone else’s rendition of another time, another place. I want to believe in those who populate that space. This so I can escape the pressures of my own world, pressures I desperately seek relief from at times. And through the act of purchasing a book, holding it in my hand, inhaling it, marking the place I left off at with a bookmark, leaving it on my night stand, and often, finding the imprints of rings from a moist steaming cup of tea on it, I can do just that. That for me is a good read. Isn’t the experience the book brings us what really counts?
Again, I hear an echo from a friend last week proclaiming that my novel is based on truth . . . and then adding, “Isn’t it?”
“No,” I answer and explain further that “the label Novel implies a work of fiction.” My girlfriend smiles and says, “Sure.”
Linda Rader Overman is a Professor of English at California State University, Northridge. Her work encompasses fiction, and nonfiction consisting of multifaceted elements including photographs, narrative portraits, images, texts, personal and social history, poetry, letters, and diaries. Her novel Letters Between Us was a finalist in the National Best Book Awards 2008. To learn more about her, and to receive her newsletter, visit Linda Overman.
More infomation at WikipediaWhen My Inspiration Died
When I think about the different types of adversity that have been a constant presence in my life, my mind goes back to the one event that has shaped me more than any other. My mother, Vivian Pray passed away on November 17, 2003. Although she was in failing health, death was never a thought. Like so many others, I felt like my mother’s medical issues were tied to her emotional health. She was depressed. She never had a chance to recover. On November 5th, she woke up like normal and had a short conversation with me before suffering a petit mal seizure and never waking up again.
At the time of her death, I was in the midst of a life changing experience. I was writing my first book. One year prior to my mother’s death, she had convinced me that I did indeed have enough talent to undertake the awesome task of bringing my friend, Faye Baker’s story to light. For six months, I wrote, enlarged the font and my mother would proofread. She would put on her reading glasses and read paragraph after paragraph. When she died, so did my desire to finish the story that was begging to be told…
Faye Baker, a high school teacher and basketball coach from Allenhurst, Georgia became paralyzed in an accident while traveling with her church to an anniversary celebration in Round O, South Carolina. The van in which she was traveling suffered a blowout before flipping over three times and landing upside down in a ditch beside Interstate 95 in Bluffton, South Carolina. The accident left Coach Baker fighting for her life- suffering with a broken neck and paralyzed from the waist down.
Although she was given less than a 4 percent chance of recovery, Coach Baker fought against the odds, not only to live but to reclaim some semblance of independence. Buoyed by her family, friends and spiritual faith, she undertook the challenge to reclaim the life that had drastically changed on that beautiful fall day. Entering the Shepherd Center for rehabilitation two weeks after the accident, Faye Baker challenged herself daily to do better than yesterday.
Keeping a firm eye on her team that was back at Bradwell Institute moving through the south east region taking no prisoners; Coach Baker used her desire to return to her job as motivation. Twelve weeks after being admitted into the Shepherd Center for Rehabilitation, she returned home to Liberty County and continued the long road to recovery. After reclaiming her job in the fall and coaching her team to the final four, she was voted the All Coastal Empire Women’s Coach of the Year for two years in a row. Albeit in a wheelchair, Coach Baker was back.
Day after day, I would go to work and see Faye Baker moving on with her life despite having experienced a life altering event. I would watch her teach her class during the day and coach her team in the evening. In between time, she would ride her bicycle. She would go outside and with her family at her side, she would walk. Although she used a wheelchair during the school day, she would never skip an exercise session in her quest to permanently give up the chair. In my eyes, she was simply amazing!
I was working as her teacher’s assistant when the idea of the book came up. I was so awed at her independence and determination, one day I told her I thought she should write a book to encourage others who are going through similar situations. She stated that her parents had made the same suggestion but she didn’t like to write. She then asked me if I wanted to do it, considering the fact that I loved to write. Of course I thought she had lost her mind, but secretly I allowed myself brief moments to fantasize about actually writing a book.
My mother didn’t share my sentiment. When I laughingly told her about the conversation, she sucked her teeth and said “why not?” Of course I thought she was crazy, too. After all, I was a single parent working as a teacher’s aide. I had never taken any writing classes. All I knew was I had a knack for completing papers at the last minute and still making a passing grade. Friends often asked me to write letters to their sweethearts but I never saw my writing as a talent or a gift. It was just something I enjoyed doing. At the time I had just completed my first college quarter and marketing 100 and computer apps was not going to help me write a book. How in the world could they ask me to write a whole, entire book?! Was the whole world going crazy?
Slowly, I allowed myself to dream. I began putting a few sentences on paper and hiding my notebooks. I was afraid someone would see my writing and laugh at me. On a whim, I showed Faye an opening I had written and her reaction left me stunned. She then took the ball out of my court by announcing my secret to her family and from that point on, I couldn’t turn back. That is until my inspiration died.
Six whole months went by after my mother’s death and I was no closer to completing the book than I was before she died. As a matter of fact, I stayed as far away from the computer as possible-claiming headaches. I just couldn’t imagine writing and not watching her strain to read in those silly dollar store reading glasses. The thought upset me terribly. Therefore, I simply gave up writing.
One afternoon I rushed to the parking lot to help Faye get out of her truck. I was running late and I didn’t want her to have to sit in the parking lot and wait for me. We had developed a routine where either me or our friend, Michelle would meet her and take the wheelchair out the back of her truck. This particular day Faye met me at the door - already in her chair. When I asked her who had taken the chair out for her, she proudly replied, “Me. I did it myself.” She then wheeled past me - moving on with her life.
Imagine my shock! Faye had been practicing this task for a while, unbeknownst to us. I looked at her once again and said to myself, “quit using mama’s death as a reason not to succeed.” With all Faye goes through, she never uses her disability as a reason not to do anything. The next day, I picked up my notebook and once again, I began writing.
Tamara Pray Frazier is a freelance writer and author who likes to write true life stories that often uses her very colorful life as a reference tool. She is the author of one book titled, In His Own time
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