“People are always talking ya about truth. Everybody always knows what the truth is, like it was toilet paper or somethin’, and they got a supply in the closet. But what you learn, as you get older, is there ain’t no truth. All there is is bullshit, pardon my vulgarity here. Layers of it. One layer of bullshit on top of another. And what you do in life like when you get older is, you pick the layer of bullshit that you prefer and that’s your bullshit, so to speak.”
Bernie LePlante, Hero (Film 1992)
As I continue this little endeavor of mine, this blog, this silly little writing thing that I do, it follows that the bulk of what I have done so far has mostly been memoirs and personal stories, commentaries or observations about the world around me. These writings would by and large fit, at least loosely, in the category of creative nonfiction.
I love that phrase. Creative nonfiction, it’s right up there alongside bipartisan cooperation on my list of favorite plausible oddities in the English language
No matter what my intentions are, when I’m writing about real life everything is filtered through my memory and emotions. Given the various things that I’ve done to myself over the last twenty some-odd years neither one of those things are can be relied upon for their accuracy or objectivity. It isn’t my nature to purposely mislead my reader or misrepresent my self, it’s just the nature of telling the story. The thing is I am not sure there can be any creativity with out embellishment or exaggeration. That’s the whole point I suppose.
We all look at the world through our own lenses, and relate it with our own voices. If you want an example just turn you TV to any major news outlet. Truth is an empirical thing but I don’t think I can quite see it from here. In the meantime I think my version of events is much more entertaining than any boring old truth.
Anyway, that’s what I’ve been thinking about for the past week.