Most books of fiction have a disclaimer stating that any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental, which should often be followed by a wink. Truth is, most writers frequently write about aspects of real people, and we may violate someone’s privacy or reveal negative feelings and unflattering observations.
Some writers find it relatively easy to assert their rights as sword-wielding artists protected by the shield of literature. Sherwood Anderson put it bluntly: “If people did not want their stories told, it would be better for them to keep away from me.” Other writers get queasy and hesitant, and let possible repercussions interfere with their writing.
Many feel that pain should only occur as an unavoidable byproduct of the process, not as the goal of the product. David Ignatow cautioned against using one’s writing like a “sledgehammer on someone.” I mentioned this to a writer known for his lack of inhibition in writing about people he knows, and he said, with the trace of a grin, “No, use it as a sledgehammer.” It is a matter of personal choice; just don’t be so naïve as to think that your writing will never affect anyone.
The good news is that often this is less of a problem than we might fear. A student wrote a story with a harshly depicted character based heavily on a friend, who admired the story and said, “My God, she’s awful!” Dickens based his portrayal of Mrs. Nickleby on his mother, who didn’t recognize herself. And to go from the sublime to the cartoonish: Legend has it that the voice of Daffy Duck was based on the quacky speech of a producer who, when asked his opinion of the voice, replied (sounding remarkably like Daffy Duck), “That’s a funny voice! Where’d ya get that voice?”
When people do see themselves in a piece, they may be flattered, even proud at being portrayed. I used to write song lyrics, and one song was based on a falling-out with a friend. A couple of years later, he was sitting next to me in a club when the performer started the opening chords. I realized I had never discussed the lyrics with my friend. He listened intently. When the song ended, before I could say anything, the waitress came over and my friend told her, smiling (I think more for my benefit), “Did you just hear that song? That was about me!” “Cool,” the waitress said. Cool, I thought, but it was an odd sensation, sitting next to the real-life version of the character I had created out of words.
This phenomenon brings to mind these lines from Ezra Pound’s “Canto II”:
Hang it all, Robert Browning,
there can be but the one “Sordello.”
But Sordello, and my Sordello?
This can be annotated to read:
there can be but the one “Sordello.” (the real life troubadour with that name)
But Sordello (Browning’s version), and my Sordello (Pound’s depiction)?
Whenever you write about someone—even if you strive to be as faithful to the flesh and blood as possible—you create a Sordello of that person.
We may alter our Sordellos in unflattering ways. Charles Dickens’s wife’s chiropodist, a dwarf, noticed herself in David Copperfield’s Miss Mowcher. She wrote an anguished letter to Dickens accusing him of linking Miss Mowcher’s offensive traits to her “personal deformities.” Dickens responded that his characters were composites, but he apologized for being the cause of such distress. The issue troubled him, and he wrote about the portrayal: “It is serio-comic, but there is no doubt one is wrong in being tempted to such a use of power.”
This is an interesting case because the discussion occurred while David Copperfield was being serialized, and Dickens was receiving feedback before the work was finished. In a sense, all of London was his workshop. And he listened. In later installments, Dickens fulfilled his promise to make Miss Mowcher a “very good character.” (The fact that Dickens also heard from the chiropodist’s solicitor might have had something to do with Miss Mowcher’s transformation.)
Sometimes the artistic problem is that we are too faithful to the real person or experience. We may be reluctant to graft fictionally appropriate traits onto a character who bears a non-coincidental resemblance to someone we know, or to invent details in a story that is predominately true. In these cases, you might need to adopt this attitude: You’re mine now. Who you are and what you do and think on these pages is up to me, and I will furnish the scenery however I please. Nancy Hale’s short story “Charlotte Russe” is based on dinner parties from her childhood; after reading the story, Hale’s mother said, “That’s the first I knew we had vast satiny napkins.”
I suggest that you be bold in the writing but cautious in the sharing. If possible, discuss the process with the subject. If there are still issues, you may choose to limit consumption of the piece until the situation changes or you can figure out a way to make the writing more palatable without sacrificing quality.
Let’s consider another person who can be affected by your writing: you. Writers take a risk by exposing work that emanates from deeply felt experiences or revealing fantasies. A student commented: “I am not quite sure where my poems come from, and they appear, perhaps, a little stranger than I like to think I am.” You will have to decide how much you are willing to reveal, but remember that in literature, strange can be good.
After I gave a reading of some delicate, personal work spiced with leaps into places I only knew in my imagination, someone remarked how brave I must be to “stand up there and say those things to strangers.” I hadn’t really thought about it, and I answered, “Well, it’s me but it’s not me.” One of my Sordellos lived the experiences, another one showed up in the poems, and yet another performed them. Somehow—and this is the best part—I felt intact and pleased.
(adapted from The Writing Workshop Note Book)
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