A Conversation with Kathryn Harrison
How would you, as a writer of both fiction and nonfiction, describe the process (or state of being) in translation?
KH: Over the past six or eight years I've gone from fiction to nonfiction to fiction to nonfiction. For me, the demands of one form relieve those of the other. Last year I finished a nonfiction project about a kid who murdered his family in Oregon, a book that posed a lot of formal problems. There was a huge amount of material to sift through and find what among thousands of details was significant. The challenges of nonfiction have less to do with invention than with making choices. What you choose to reveal about the subject you've chosen. It's a more cerebral process than writing fiction. While fiction is a freer form, you have the problem of coming up with a plot. Fiction relies more heavily on the unconsciousÑyour dreams, your instinctive, intuitive self. I couldn't do one or the other; I love them both.
Your 1997 memoir, The Kiss, is a stunning look at father-daughter incest, and feels quite confessional. How do you incorporate translation when writing about your own life?
KH: I teach memoir writing, so I'll answer as both a writer and as a teacher. We're very aware right now of writers like James Frey or Augusten Burroughs being accused of fabricating too much to call what they write memoir, and a lot of my students are anxious about how strictly faithful a writer must be to factual truth. My feeling is, if you're doing your best to tell the truth, it will be evident in your work. I was asked to blurb James Frey's book, so I read it before all the controversy, but immediately I responded to the book as an exercise in self-mythologizing rather than memoir. Memoir, to me, is anti-narcissistic; it leans towards discomfort; it relies on self-scrutiny. If a writer is engaged in that process he or she is being faithful to the idea of truth and honesty. Truth is not a destination but a direction; it never has a capital T, not if you're mortal. A lot of how a book reads has to do with the writer's agenda; if your agenda is to reveal yourself honestly, then your narrative will read that way, no matter if every detail is factually accurate or not. I think text is more transparent than people assume.
Can you speak more about discomfort?
KH: If I'm comfortable I'm not doing a very good job as a writer. In terms of memoir, my aim is vivisection. I want to lay myself open and see what's there, and that's an inherently painful process. It implies a willingness to see myself clearly, a self who may not be the me I'd prefer to discover. We all have illusions about who we are, and if we strip away our fantasies about ourselves, it's a very naked process, and not comfortable. Like taking your clothes off and standing in harsh lighting in front of a really accurate mirror. You're not going to see what you want to see. Memoir is to report on this, to maintain a clinical distance from yourself. We're taught to be modest, so underselling yourself is also a problem.
How would you, as a writer of both fiction and nonfiction, describe the process (or state of being) in translation?
KH: Over the past six or eight years I've gone from fiction to nonfiction to fiction to nonfiction. For me, the demands of one form relieve those of the other. Last year I finished a nonfiction project about a kid who murdered his family in Oregon, a book that posed a lot of formal problems. There was a huge amount of material to sift through and find what among thousands of details was significant. The challenges of nonfiction have less to do with invention than with making choices. What you choose to reveal about the subject you've chosen. It's a more cerebral process than writing fiction. While fiction is a freer form, you have the problem of coming up with a plot. Fiction relies more heavily on the unconsciousÑyour dreams, your instinctive, intuitive self. I couldn't do one or the other; I love them both.
Your 1997 memoir, The Kiss, is a stunning look at father-daughter incest, and feels quite confessional. How do you incorporate translation when writing about your own life?
KH: I teach memoir writing, so I'll answer as both a writer and as a teacher. We're very aware right now of writers like James Frey or Augusten Burroughs being accused of fabricating too much to call what they write memoir, and a lot of my students are anxious about how strictly faithful a writer must be to factual truth. My feeling is, if you're doing your best to tell the truth, it will be evident in your work. I was asked to blurb James Frey's book, so I read it before all the controversy, but immediately I responded to the book as an exercise in self-mythologizing rather than memoir. Memoir, to me, is anti-narcissistic; it leans towards discomfort; it relies on self-scrutiny. If a writer is engaged in that process he or she is being faithful to the idea of truth and honesty. Truth is not a destination but a direction; it never has a capital T, not if you're mortal. A lot of how a book reads has to do with the writer's agenda; if your agenda is to reveal yourself honestly, then your narrative will read that way, no matter if every detail is factually accurate or not. I think text is more transparent than people assume.
Can you speak more about discomfort?
KH: If I'm comfortable I'm not doing a very good job as a writer. In terms of memoir, my aim is vivisection. I want to lay myself open and see what's there, and that's an inherently painful process. It implies a willingness to see myself clearly, a self who may not be the me I'd prefer to discover. We all have illusions about who we are, and if we strip away our fantasies about ourselves, it's a very naked process, and not comfortable. Like taking your clothes off and standing in harsh lighting in front of a really accurate mirror. You're not going to see what you want to see. Memoir is to report on this, to maintain a clinical distance from yourself. We're taught to be modest, so underselling yourself is also a problem.