Truth & Reality TV

It’s embarrassing, but I watch a lot of reality TV. A lot. And not even just the “good” Emmy-nominated stuff like The Amazing Race, Project Runway, and Top Chef. No, I get sucked into marathon afternoons of the Real Housewives and America’s Next Top Model for countless consecutive hours. I’m not sure of the appeal. Maybe it’s because I am always trying to carve a narrative out of my reality, to create stories from my day-to-day grind. Somehow, this summer, I got sucked into Ryan and Tatum: The O’Neal’s on the Oprah Winfrey Network. This one had extra appeal because Tatum was finishing up a memoir and much of her estrangement with her father had to do with her first tell-all book.

Ann Mayhew wrote a column earlier this year about celebrity memoirs and novels and although I haven’t read Tatum’s first book A Paper Life, nor do I plan to read this next one, Found: A Daughter’s Journey Home, I was intrigued by her process because, well, it was televised. She struggled with the final edits of her manuscript, and reluctantly read passages to her father. With her father listening in, the content of her work shifted as she considered her words through his eyes and as she made edits with her father’s feelings in mind, I found myself wondering about the truth.

This summer my middle school memoir took shape and I tracked down my former classmates. Some still live in Bend where we grew up and several are in Portland. Others have homes scattered across the west and one chose a convent. I shared the manuscript with these friends and my family, asking them to look back at a time most would rather forget. They read and critiqued, requested edits and corrected memories. The draft changed and although I will miss aspects of the old pages, hopefully the new ones won’t bring on a libel suit or even an angry email. Although litigation could feasibly help book sales, I guess my life doesn’t make very good reality TV. I want Overdue Apologies to be a story I can live with while still remaining faithful to the truth.

Particularly in memoir, truth can be elusive. No cameras document the private moments of our lives so authors rely on fallible memories. Tatum’s view of her childhood varies wildly from her father’s just as my recollection of a summer with the chicken pox differs from my mother’s. I remember the details of my brother’s adoption or my sister’s depressive states with completely different lenses than they do. So which details contain the truth? What do we owe our subjects, our parents, sisters, brothers, friend, lovers and enemies as we craft our shared stories?