One of the questions I've been asked most often since publishing The Colour of Flying is about the relationship between truth and fiction in memoir.
It was a subject I recently had the pleasure of discussing at an event organized by Blown Away by Books at Fish Hoek Library.
The delightful Cathy Park Kelly, a fellow writer, was an engaging and skilled interviewer who opened up the discussion so that people in the audience could participate. The conversation sparked some marvelous questions about the nature of truth, competing truths, points of view, and what makes a memoir credible.
These questions about truth and fiction were present throughout the writing of The Colour of Flying, but when my dear husband showed me the photo he had taken of two copies of my book displayed on the Non-Fiction table in a bookshop, (alongside titles about war, politics, dogs, how machines work, and yes, Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes To Me), they became centre stage.
Is my book really Non-Fiction?
In my understanding, this implies that it is a factual account based on information from sources that can be corroborated and checked. But apart from a handful of letters and photos, and repeated oral accounts, I had nothing but my memory as a source. I am told that I have a good memory for dates, facts, names and events, but with the passage of more than 60 years, I very much doubt that it can be entirely accurate in every respect.
The events I describe, as I experienced them between the ages of three and ten, are based on things that really happened. But after more than sixty years, I can't be absolutely sure of the exact order in which they occurred.
Likewise, except for a few particularly life-changing occasions, I cannot recall in exact detail the behaviour and words of the people I describe, even the most significant. The kind ones have their real names, and the less-than-kind have been deliberately given fictional names. But in all cases, their speech, actions, and reactions typify them, give them a voice, and bring them to life. It is my truth as I experienced it.
So where does that leave us?
Where should a book like mine be placed?
How do we measure truth and fiction in a memoir, particularly one told through the eyes of a child?
I'd love to know what you think.