Honesty is such a lonely word

The writer, Zadie Smith, in an interview on NPR, said that she could not really write about people who are still alive. She said that writing about the living is a "violent thing to do"; that it seemed like a betrayal of the living relationship. She's recently published a book of nonfiction essays, which include two essays about her relationship with her father, who is no longer living. She called the process of writing about him an act of mourning.

Frank McCourt, the author "Angela's Ashes," probably felt the same way, to a certain extent. McCourt didn't write about his mother until he was much older, long after she had died. Given the manner in which McCourt revealed his family secrets, the way he exposed his mother's true being, as perceived and written by him, this similar theory seems to make sense.

When my father was alive, I often wrote freely about our relationship. Good, bad, or indifferent, we had a history as father and son, and I guess my way of understanding our relationship was through writing; my act of mourning.

Writing has always been my way of figuring things out. Before I was introduced to the nonfiction genre, I would fictionalize my life in short stories. When my cousin and uncle died in separate car accidents two years apart--both involving drinking and driving--I wrote a short story about a group of teenagers who experienced the same issue. When I started chewing tobacco, I wrote a short story about the experience. Knee surgery, girlfriends, steroids, family arguments, divorce. Everything was open season, but I had the freedom/guise of writing "fiction."

This has been a year of reflection, but it's also been a year of forgiving. Two previously strained relationships were rekindled, with overwhelmingly positive results. I'm proud of myself for these things, and happy that these people are back in my life.

A teacher and friend of mine, Sandi Wisenberg uses people's initials when she writes about them. Her blog http://www.cancerbitch.blogspot.com/ began as a way for her to process, vent, expose, understand her life with breast cancer. Instead of fictionalizing things, Sandi kept people pretty much anonymous. "L" did this, or "C," a student of mine did that. It reminded me of novels written long ago.

I never quite understood this practice.

I'm starting to get it.

Because, boy do I need to process things.