Departing the Flock

Over the past decade or so, we've become accustomed to people revealing the intimate details of their personal lives in books, on radio and TV talk shows, and over the Internet. Obscured in this fog of exhibitionism is whether any of it helps us understand each other better, or if it is in any way helpful to comprehending the human condition collectively.

NPR's Maureen Corrigan made an interesting observation today in her book review of Alice Munro's new short story collection, The View from Castle Rock on Fresh Air.

"Oftentimes the most daring secrets an autobiographical piece of writing can reveal," said Corrigan, "are not the over-the-top confessions about sex, drugs and recovery, but those small but devastating betrayals of thought and affection known only to the one harboring them." You can hear her entire piece at NPR.org .

I loved that phrase, "small but devastating betrayals." When it comes to the emotional honesty that is required in order to tell our stories truthfully, it is these tiny, pivotal shifts in a relationship that sends it tumbling toward oblivion.

In case you are wondering how I can reference a review of a work of fiction in my comments about memoir-writing, Munro's book is partially an attempt to take on that eternal question all fiction writers face from their readers -- "How much of what you write is autobiographical?"

This is by far the top question put to every fiction writer at readings, in letters, and on talk shows. (My advice,FWIW, to anyone publishing a novel or short story collection is to come up with your own answer to that question before going out on your book tour. The worst thing you can do is sweep it aside with a note of awkward irritation.)

And Corrigan offered her insights in the context of Munro's admittedly semi-autobiographical style that permeates this new collection.

"Small but devastating betrayals." It doesn't take much to alter the mood between two people. A perceived slight, the opening of an old wound, the subtle change in how you greet one another, hold each other, even the nuance of which words are not spoken, all influence the chemistry we are able to maintain for each other.

The shifts can be so minor. One day, you feel safe, secure in her love. The next day, the slightest breeze causes you to shiver to your bones. Your instincts spring to life; she isn't being truthful, she's interested in someone else, she's hiding something.

Personally, I find these intuitive flashes irritating. It is much nicer to trust someone whole-heartedly, risking a larger pain I suppose, than in becoming paranoid about the tiny shifts in moods that potentially could grow larger and eventually cause you to separate from one another.

Collectively, we move as a culture toward sharing ever more sensational details of our lives with each other, but the result is only a desensitizing of our spirit; we become hardened and cynical, with only the lowest expectations for each other.

This is not the picture of a culture moving toward a place of greater love and compassion. This is a culture moving into deeper isolation and alienation. This blog is and always has been about sharing our loneliness, so that we might fight it, and develop new ways of connecting the small truths that can bind us together as surely as they can rend us asunder.

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