(Note: The other day's post was actually a preface to today's post. So, you might want to read both, but suit yourself.)
A few days after this certain argument with my dad, I went to a bookstore in the Discombobulate's mall to take advantage of the close-out sale. I was determined to come home with books that weren't classics. After perusing the already thoroughly picked-over shelves, I was pretty much convinced that only crap was left. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a book snob. It's a sure-fire way to get into an argument with someone...just hate on their favorite author. Anyway, I stumbled upon an author I discovered a few years ago but hadn't read anything of his since. It was 60% off; so, content that it wasn't stamped with the words, "Hey, I'm snobby and literary," I bought it.
I finished the book this morning, and I'm still left pondering a certain question: "What does his family think about his books?"
You see, all of his stories, or essays rather, are supposedly true. They're embellished a little, most likely. Perhaps some names are changed. But essentially, they're true stories, and a lot of them involve his family and friends. I mean, how could they not? But does he have full permission to write about his friends? Do they care what he says? Have they banished him from family reunions because of what he said about them in his last book?
Then, I start to imagine how my family would react to some of the things I write about them. For instance, my last entry talked about my father. Even though I was careful not to portray him negatively, would his feelings be hurt if he stumbled upon my blog somehow? (He barely knows the blog exists at this point.)
Whenever I meet people, and we discuss things like...what I want to be when I grow up, I always warn them. "Well, I want to write for a living, you know books and stuff. And well, you might end up in some story someday. Please, don't sue me?" I say it very meekly; I'm really rather shy when it comes to what I want to do with my life.
The problem is that most people react to this extremely sincere cautionary statement in one of two ways:
A. Nervous laughter that actually says, "What is this weird thing this stranger just told me? She can't write about me; she doesn't even know me."
OR
B. "Cool! I've never had a story written about me before!" (In my mom's case, "I would be honored if you ever wrote anything about me. You wouldn't be mean about your loving mother!")
They don't quite seem to grasp my dilemma here. First of all, I can write about you even if you're a stranger. It's called imagination, people, and you're probably not going to like it. Sure, I don't always mean for something to come off rude or cruel. But sometimes...well, it just sounds worse on paper. Then again, I've written purposefully horrible stories about certain people who have wronged me. I'm talking, I really rip these people apart. They become the victim in my make-believe revenge. And the worst part about it? They can't say anything in return. I'm like this voodoo kid and they're my dolls/puppets, or minions, if you will. Right now, none of it's published, but if I'm lucky enough someday...I just pray the real person - if they ever read my story - won't recognize those tortured blue eyes as their own.
I imagine the phone ringing and an angry voice on the other line. "Hey, Natalie, I have a bone to pick with you. This guy in your new book. The evil one with the pierced ear. It sounds just like me!"
Me: "What are you talking about?" (Nervous trembles in my voice. I don't get out much anymore) "That guy's definitely based on a kid a knew in elementary school."
Angry Dude: "My lawyer will be in touch with you." *Click*
My worst nightmare! What I'd really like to happen is this...
The phone rings. I answer, and it's a few moments before a soft voice replies. "Natalie, this guy, in your book. If he's me, I am so sorry."
Me: "Well, actually, he's based on somebody else, but I was going to deal with you in my next book. Would you like to postpone your apology until then?"
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