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September 23, 2005

LIES AND DAMN LIES

I’ve taught novel-writing workshops for years, and have in my repertoire of exercises a useful little mind-fuck that demonstrates the value of particularity in fiction, and how it evokes feeling, and the pointlessness of defending a failed narrative just because it is true. I tell the students two stories, one real, one made-up, and then have them decide which is which and why.

The true story involves an advanced pregnancy, a drug-crazed husband, and a gun that goes off in a bathroom sink. The made-up story is about having grown up near Waverly Drive in LA, the street where Leno and Rosemary LaBianca lived (yes, those LaBiancas, the ones murdered by members of the Manson family). A grammar school friend of mine lived next door to the LaBiancas, and I stole and embellished her brother’s claim of having met and talked to Charles Manson a few days before the murders (which was itself a lie). Both tales are lurid and improbable, but I can nudge the group toward seeing one or another as true by the type of detail provided. The right description of the Waverly house (the hibiscus grown over the mailbox, the frosted glass in a lower panel of the side door) usually persuades the majority to vote for that story as true.

The last time I did this exercise, I was teaching in Denver for Lighthouse Writers. Once the voting was in and we’d discussed how they’d made their selections, I set them to writing their own short tales, true or made-up. One woman, however, instead of working came up and asked if she could have a word with me in the hall. It turned out that she was the LaBianca's (now middle-aged) daughter. Her name was right there on the roster, but the connection never occurred to me. She told me that she and her younger brother were supposed to be at the house that night—their parents were divorced and they lived with their mom in Long Beach, but her brother had a bad cold, so they didn't go up to LA after all.  She’s thought about it for years, what it would have meant if they'd been there.

Mortified, I apologized for using her personal history as part of a writing exercise, even if inadvertantly. She was gracious, and seemed fine. But I couldn’t get over the fact that it was her house. That the place, for all the terrible associations it has for the general public, means something entirely other to her.

Posted at 12:14 AM |

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Comments

Angela

Holy Hell--what are the chances!?! Other than that hang up, did the students lean towards that story or your "fictional" one? Great exercise though. Note to all instructors--check for names of murder victim's relatives on roster before going down that road:)

Posted by: Angela | September 23, 2005 at 02:44 PM

jaent brown

oh my god---I remember those frightening days!

Posted by: jaent brown | September 23, 2005 at 03:36 PM

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