Openly Afraid Of Bristol Palin’s Life

HarperCollins recently released yet another summer blockbuster. And no, I’m not talking about Smokin’ Seventeen by Janet Evanovich, which certainly falls into that category. Nor do I mean Overbite by Meg Cabot, sure to be the next vampire craze once it comes to a Barnes & Noble near you on July 5.

No, no. I am referring to Not Afraid of Life: My Journey So Far by Bristol Palin.

Throughout my time studying English, I have heard all the usual arguments for and against memoir and autobiography. On one hand, memoirs can expose the inner workings of a brilliant mind and allow the writer to divulge in a self-analytical journey that can be mentally and emotionally rewarding. Also, many of the memoirs and autobiographies that have been hated on in the past are now part of canons around the globe. I read Margery Kempe in the Norton Anthology of English Literature last fall, where we learned of its importance as the first English autobiography and because of its depiction of women at the time. When I studied in France during high school, my literature teacher had devoted a whole unit on the autobiography, starting with Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

Matt Logelin, bestselling author of the memoir Two Kisses for Maddy, found the act of writing a book about the death of his wife and his experience being a single father extremely difficult yet also a huge aid in his grieving process.

As he explained in an interview with me this spring: “It’s an emotionally draining process to recall those details and to get them on paper and to think that there will be people out there reading the book and knowing that there are going to be critics and that there are going to be snarky reviewers. All of that adds to the pressure of trying to produce this thing that, ultimately, is for Madeline.”

Matt sees it primarily for Madeline as a beautiful memory of her mother. But, it was also indirectly for Madeline in a more practical sense, in that it would bring in thousands of dollars to help Matt take care of her. It was clear during our interview that Matt’s memoir was written with the best of intentions.

But Matt Logelin is not Bristol Palin, though they are both single parents. Levi didn’t die during childbirth and leave Bristol all alone. (Now that would’ve been interesting, considering he’s a guy.) Nor did Bristol Palin become famous because she wrote an incredibly moving and popular blog.

And this brings me to the dark side of memoir.

We’ve all heard it—writing a memoir is an egotistical act done only by narcissists. Either you’re obsessed with yourself, or else you think everyone else in the world should be.

What were Bristol’s motives?

In an interview with Good Morning America, Bristol summed up what she wants people to get out of her book: that young girls will see the mistakes she made, that women in bad relationships will be enlightened, that sex dialogues will open up between parents and kids… These are legit reasons.

But, based off decisions such as announcing her engagement via Us Weekly, being on Dancing with the Stars, and having her own reality TV show (currently in the works), I (and most other people) can’t help but feel that the memoir was primarily motivated by a simple desire to be in the spotlight. And to hate on the McCains a little bit. Not so legit.

I also recently interviewed an amazing, up-and-coming poet named Santee Frazier who pointed out (not very fondly) during our discussion why he believes the American public seems only interested in reading memoir.

“They just want to be told what’s happening with a person, why it’s interesting, just so they can have something in their head and be able to talk about it later…. I don’t think people want to do the kind of sensory work anymore required for reading poets like William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens.”

I can’t help but believe this is a pretty accurate portrayal of most memoir readings. We are definitely not reading them for the incredibly sophisticated prose. And in the case of Bristol Palin’s memoir, discuss it they have. I don’t even have to read Not Afraid of Life to summarize it for you, because countless bloggers have already done so. (I especially enjoyed Marlow Stern’s version for The Daily Beast.)

Memoirs provide a glimpse into a pop culture icon’s life, the same way reality TV shows (the ones producing these celebrities in the first place) also do. They provide an escape from the reality of our humdrum lives and sometimes, as in Bristol’s case, they provide further ground to idolize someone who you already look up to. (You know… for those who look up to Bristol Palin…) Bristol’s descriptions of her bravery in the face of teen pregnancy, decision to now remain chaste until marriage, powerful faith, etc. are not only inspiring through tabloids, but especially so when stated by Bristol herself. (Again, for those inspired by her in the first place.)

Not only are there memoirs authored by pop culture icons whose fame is questionable and confusing seeing as they haven’t really done anything deserving of their fame, like Bristol, but there are also novels being published by this same breed of celebrity.

For example, I have this distinct memory of checking out The Truth about Diamonds by Nicole Richie in my local Barnes & Noble years ago, intrigued by the girl with smeared eyeliner and a glittery tiara on the cover. That’s about as far as my relationship with the book went. But, for other people, books like these feel like gifts from heaven. The question begs to be asked—why?

The novels, unlike the memoirs, are like reality TV taken a step further—not only are they an escape from reality, but they are even admitted to be fictitious, unlike the TV shows themselves. You don’t have to use your brain to enjoy them; you just have to be willing to absorb scenes of debauchery and drunkenness, now in painfully bad prose.

There is definitely a difference between memoirs written by celebrities and novels written by celebrities. The memoirs are mildly understandable, even if why the writer is famous in the first place isn’t. But, they are easy to clump together since both types of books inherently rely on their author’s questionable celebrity status (they’re not famous because they’re the President or anything, you know). Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Snooki, Hillary Duff, Lauren Conrad… even the Kardashians have a book deal now. Often, it’s only the celebrity’s name that appears on the cover—the co-writer or ghostwriter is barely if ever given credit.

But these celebrity-authored novels clue us into more than just our reverence of reality TV shows and need for an escape. They also represent the obsession with brand names that our generation has. Even if you pretend you could care less about Abercrombie & Fitch, Ralph Lauren Polo, the Ivy League schools, Wal-Mart, or American Apparel, you still associate them with a certain image. The act of using celebrity names as a brand has trickled into the fashion business, the music business (remember when Paris Hilton tried to sing?), the perfume business, and countless others. The Olsen twins’ old perfume line sold because it was by the Olson twins. It only makes sense that this branding has squirmed its way into the publishing industry as well, which is, after all, simply another collection of large corporations out to make money. And these faces sell.

If there’s demand, there’s supply. And the American audience is clearing demanding for as much Bristol Palin and Snooki as possible.

Will our culture ever shift back to one that demands beauty, finesse, heroes that do things besides get plastic surgery? Perhaps our idols reflect the public themselves. Perhaps this arguably depressing state of things would change if we taught children how to appreciate quality music, quality art, quality education, quality lifestyles. I’m not saying anyone who parties or wears make-up or listens to Katy Perry is at fault for novels and memoirs by questionable celebrities—hell, I do all of the above. But I am saying that our standards could be higher at least some of the time, that our demands could extend past pure, substance-less name brands to include the intellectual as well, so that quality literature doesn’t have to get pushed aside to a niche corner of independent presses and underground lit magazines. There’s no need for “intelligent” to be associated with a negative “elite” as it often is nowadays. If there’s demand, there’s supply. And I believe in this country’s ability to open their eyes, activate their brain, and raise their voices to actually demand instead of simply sucking in celebrity name-brands by osmosis.

I may watch The Jersey Shore, but I can guarantee you I didn’t buy Snooki’s memoir. I personally find a huge difference in the experience of watching TV and the experience of reading a book—and there’s a time and place for everything. I watch TV when I don’t want to use my brain. (I seriously have that exact thought process: “I’m tired. I don’t want to use my brain. I’m going to watch True Blood.”) Research has shown that watching TV does switch your thinking from the less “cognitive” parts of your brain—in fact; it numbs the left side of your brain, the judging, analytical side, and leaves all the work to your emotional right side, so my natural reaction to watch television after a three-hour final makes sense.

Reading is what I do when I want mental exercise, when I want to use my imagination and my intelligence, when I want to engage with the world and with a work of art. My Google-search didn’t come up with statistics on how much of your brain you use when reading and what parts, but since the left brain is the one that is more analytical and works with words, I’ll assume that’s the one you primarily use while reading. Sounds like the opposite of watching TV, don’t you think?

I’m not sure if I want my right-brained TV shows and drunken reality TV stars combined with my left-brained reading. If kids grow up with Snooki-authored books as common, instead of abnormalities to blog about, what is this going to do to the future of reading? Our abilities to sit down and get involved in a long piece of literature are already declining thanks to the internet.

Maybe I can’t hate on Bristol Palin’s Not Afraid of Life too much—I imagine that, to many people reading her book, she is a true hero. I mean, I ate up Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe and basically everything Kerouac has ever written. But then again, I also read them for the prose. And the art. And their influence on American culture. Bristol Palin is being read because she is the daughter of a politician with a taste for fame, Sarah Palin.

And Snooki? She’s famous for drinking and having arguably badass hair.