Memoir vs Novel

Blog #4

I’ve embedded a part of my own story in an adult novel I’m still working on. If I ever put this novel out there, it will be under an anonymous name because my immediate family would be uncomfortable about certain parts of the book – the parts I didn’t take to my critique group. The spicy parts that make it an adult read.

            As with most authors, part of my past triggers certain scenes – but they go on and on from there. The reader will never know how much of the story is me and how much is fabrication.

            I’ve used my sisters in the book, but even Jane, who has read the manuscript, can’t decide which sister she is. That’s because there is a part of a neighbor and a cousin, and made up traits that are all part of the character. It was, however, helpful to have a starting point.

            And I did have a boyfriend in Tucson many years ago. I didn’t ever go back to visit him as an adult. And, a far as I know, he wasn’t in a car accident where his wife and children were killed. And he doesn’t move in and out of reality because of a brain injury.

            From chapter 27

"A . . .a . . . a . . ." the man stammered as he squinted her direction. "Oh yes, I think you were . . . that girl, the one who liked to dance.” He touched the side of his head where his ear should have been. “I'm surprised you recognize me. I was . . . a. . .  in an accident.” As though bearing his testimony, he continued, his voice growing higher in pitch and volume, so no one could doubt the truth in his confession. “I was driving. It was my fault. My five . . . all my five . . . my children and my wife were killed, gone, dead."

His one eye dulled and Holly wondered if he revisited this memory often. She remained silent, standing in the doorway, trying to keep her breathing even.

Slowly he returned to the present and with a sort of old-world graciousness, stood up from his swivel chair and gestured toward the one straight back chair in his office. Realizing it was stacked with papers, he carefully gathered them up, placed them precariously on top of another pile on his desk, and gestured again for her to be seated.

In a rush of words to cover her embarrassment, Holly said she had thought of him over the years, had always remembered him with fondness, wondering how his life had been. Then, realizing this was a major gaffe, said quietly, "I'm so sorry to hear of your loss." She hated those clichéd words, but what else could a person say?

His life had been filled with tragedy, something she hadn't anticipated. She had, in a dark corner of her mind, hoped that his happy marriage had not been happy. That his wife had grown fat and lazy and that his smug self-righteousness had made him a man to avoid. She didn't wish that now. She wished to be out of this dreadful office, this morass of despair.