Hiding Behind Fiction

My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.

The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.

Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.

When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.

"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"

I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.

"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."

As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.

"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."

As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.

"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."

I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.

On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.

"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."

After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.

I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.

"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."

I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?

"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.

You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."

It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.

But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.

It's the only way to end the war inside my head.