I love the reframing of deliberately invented material less as bad because immoral and more as a disservice to oneself as a writer: a “loneliness.” Writing can already be lonely as it is; we might as well get our real selves out there and hope for a connection.
I have the sense that the people who want to do this don’t feel real to themselves, like nothing they do matters. And it’s possible it is because they’re not invested in the first outcome—learning more about who they are and why.
Your reflection on truth in personal essays is both profound and beautifully unsettling. The metaphor of Hatnefer’s scarab struck me — it’s haunting to think of asking your own heart to lie for you, even in the face of ultimate judgment. It ties so elegantly to the idea of inventing details in nonfiction. When we do this, aren’t we scratching our names onto someone else’s scarab, hoping it holds up in the weight of our readers’ trust?
I love how you describe writing as a ‘machine for knowing your own thoughts.’ That resonates deeply. Writing has always felt like excavation to me — digging through memory’s ruins, finding fragments of truth, and piecing together something imperfect but real. And yet, it’s tempting to polish those fragments into something shinier for the sake of a ‘better ending.’ But as you say, the truth we find underneath is always more compelling than the fiction we create to replace it.
Your stance on the difference between fiction and nonfiction is such an important reminder. The pleasure in nonfiction isn’t in perfection; it’s in the messy, vulnerable attempt to understand. And perhaps that’s the scarab we should be carrying — not one that begs our heart to lie, but one that reminds it to weigh truth, even when it’s heavy.
I think about this often. How the conscious thinking part of us (some subset of the brain) is smaller and less complex than the entirety of the system that constantly influences and gives rise to it (the rest of the nervous system, the whole organism, its various inputs from the environment...). We're always playing catch-up, in this quest of self-understanding.
This is frankly the finest description I’ve read of why we become and why we remain writers. I feel very humbled by your ability to put this into words so clearly and, of course, so honestly. Thank you.
Fiction / invention in personal essays and memoir is a betrayal of the self. I love this so much, to find the truth and accuracy—as best as memory allows—is both a self reckoning and an honoring. A dive deeper into our human experience. Thank you.
If we had the technology like in a Black Mirror episode that gives us the actual replay of our experiences, I don't think we'd have the poetry of imperfect memory. Also, hahaha love 'nobody likes mind readers.' Maybe this was also true for Egyptian days, nobody would like a heart reader, especially if Egyptians considered the heart as the center of thinking, memory and morality. Thank you for this!
I live a life that very few people believe is possible. In 1998, I didn't think I'd ever be able to share it, but it kept coming. In 2012, I decided to share everything. It took 10 years for the story structure to reveal itself to me. Along the way, I found others who have experienced similar things. One of them is Carl Jung. I published a collection of events here called Synchronicity, Documented, but it's not all about synchronicity. Another is Allen Ginsberg. Another is Neitzsche. Another is Socrates.
I love the reframing of deliberately invented material less as bad because immoral and more as a disservice to oneself as a writer: a “loneliness.” Writing can already be lonely as it is; we might as well get our real selves out there and hope for a connection.
I have the sense that the people who want to do this don’t feel real to themselves, like nothing they do matters. And it’s possible it is because they’re not invested in the first outcome—learning more about who they are and why.
Your reflection on truth in personal essays is both profound and beautifully unsettling. The metaphor of Hatnefer’s scarab struck me — it’s haunting to think of asking your own heart to lie for you, even in the face of ultimate judgment. It ties so elegantly to the idea of inventing details in nonfiction. When we do this, aren’t we scratching our names onto someone else’s scarab, hoping it holds up in the weight of our readers’ trust?
I love how you describe writing as a ‘machine for knowing your own thoughts.’ That resonates deeply. Writing has always felt like excavation to me — digging through memory’s ruins, finding fragments of truth, and piecing together something imperfect but real. And yet, it’s tempting to polish those fragments into something shinier for the sake of a ‘better ending.’ But as you say, the truth we find underneath is always more compelling than the fiction we create to replace it.
Your stance on the difference between fiction and nonfiction is such an important reminder. The pleasure in nonfiction isn’t in perfection; it’s in the messy, vulnerable attempt to understand. And perhaps that’s the scarab we should be carrying — not one that begs our heart to lie, but one that reminds it to weigh truth, even when it’s heavy.
I think about this often. How the conscious thinking part of us (some subset of the brain) is smaller and less complex than the entirety of the system that constantly influences and gives rise to it (the rest of the nervous system, the whole organism, its various inputs from the environment...). We're always playing catch-up, in this quest of self-understanding.
Yes! Exactly.
This is frankly the finest description I’ve read of why we become and why we remain writers. I feel very humbled by your ability to put this into words so clearly and, of course, so honestly. Thank you.
Thank you so much, Ellen.
Beautiful, thank you. I'm affiliated to trying to tell the truth, inasmuch as it can be remembered. But I think that's a personal bent.
The monstrous truth of this is what keeps me going.
Fiction / invention in personal essays and memoir is a betrayal of the self. I love this so much, to find the truth and accuracy—as best as memory allows—is both a self reckoning and an honoring. A dive deeper into our human experience. Thank you.
If we had the technology like in a Black Mirror episode that gives us the actual replay of our experiences, I don't think we'd have the poetry of imperfect memory. Also, hahaha love 'nobody likes mind readers.' Maybe this was also true for Egyptian days, nobody would like a heart reader, especially if Egyptians considered the heart as the center of thinking, memory and morality. Thank you for this!
I live a life that very few people believe is possible. In 1998, I didn't think I'd ever be able to share it, but it kept coming. In 2012, I decided to share everything. It took 10 years for the story structure to reveal itself to me. Along the way, I found others who have experienced similar things. One of them is Carl Jung. I published a collection of events here called Synchronicity, Documented, but it's not all about synchronicity. Another is Allen Ginsberg. Another is Neitzsche. Another is Socrates.
#memoir #GODDAMN