by Bob Strother
“…
and to know a truth, I also had to recognize a lie.”
—Eudora Welty
“He
lies for a living.”
—Doonesbury cartoon character, speaking of
another character, a novelist.
I
was sitting in a Denny’s on the return leg of a trip to Flagstaff, Arizona,
when a song from the fifties came over the restaurant’s speaker system, evoking
some memory from my youth. As I recounted the story for my wife, she looked at
me with her big baby blues and said, “You really ought to write some of that
stuff down. You sound like you grew up in a Neil Simon play.” And, thus, began
my career in writing.
I
had plenty of material to work with. The product of a broken home, I had four
half-brothers, one half-sister, two step-sisters, and one
kid who was my father’s second wife’s son from her first marriage. Figure that
one out. I also had, and spent a great deal of time with, two sets of wonderful
grandparents (one of which revered Franklin Delano Roosevelt, God, Elvis
Presley, and rock and roll, in that order), an irascible great grandmother
(good German stock), a mean-as-a-snake great grandfather (also German, but from
a different gene pool), an aging maiden aunt, and a hypochondriac great uncle.
What aspiring writer couldn’t take that bowl of mixed nuts and come up with a
great manuscript?
Naturally,
my first attempts at creative writing involved capturing the captivating
nuances of my childhood for later generations. I had always said that the only
thing missing from my life was background music, so I titled my Great American
Memoir Southern Soundtrack and began
writing in earnest. Fortunately, I also joined the South Carolina Writers’
Workshop about the same time and started attending a critique group regularly
while I set about learning the craft.
There
I began to realize that my stories, while entertaining and amusing for my
family members, might not have quite the same appeal to a mass audience. After
listening to a particular recollection from my youth, one critique partner
suggested a changing the outcome. My remark at the time (and one I’ve heard
numerous times since then from other newbie writers) was, “But that’s not the
way it happened.” She gave me a knowing half-smile and left me with a simple
pronouncement I’ve never forgotten: “You could always try fiction. That way,
you don’t always have to tell the truth.”
In
the six or seven years since, I’ve employed that principle religiously, penning
over eighty short stories and four novels. Doing so has provided me the license
to right past wrongs, deliver clever comebacks I would never have conjured up
on the spur of the moment, and, in some cases, exact sweet revenge. Today,
while I am often inspired by events in my past, I am no longer restrained by
the reality of them. That old memoir is still around somewhere, snugged into an
old file cabinet. It’s the truth, and it’s warm and fuzzy, but not as exciting
as fiction. The truth may set you free, but a good imagination (and the ability
to conjure up nicely packaged and plausible lies) can give you wings.
______________________________
Pushcart
Prize nominee Bob Strother was featured in the November-December issue of Southern Writers Magazine, and was
recently awarded the Hub City
Writers/Emrys Foundation 2012 Fiction Prize. His short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered was
released in February, 2011 through Main Street Rag Publishing Company. www.bobstrother.net
No comments:
Post a Comment