Are There Really Any Private Parts?
So I wrote about getting pictures of penises on my cellphone. And it was published in the New York Press, which was a like a whole new set of markers for my ego to huff. It wasn’t until after I submitted my revisions to the editor that it dawned on me: these things actually happened. Which means that this article could potentially embarrass some people. Granted, people who get embarrassed about being namelessly alluded to in sex columns are probably not the same people who brazenly take photographs of their genitals with their cell-phones. At least I hope not.
But an interesting point arose as a result of this article. (Pun definitely intended.) Does an author have a responsibility to conceal identities or alter situations, all for the sake of preventing hurt feelings and lawsuits? It’s certainly not a requirement, and even if select details are changed, that sure as hell doesn’t prevent litigation. Just look at one of my favorites, Augusten Burroughs. "Undisclosed sum" is not a phrase anybody wants to be on the paying end of. The introductions to many books contain tiny disclaimers about names being changed or timelines being shuffled. It’s safe to say that nobody wants to be compared to James Frey in that respect, either. Separate from potential legal ramifications, and other than the writer making their own excrement smell like lavender, should other parties be taken into account when writing personal narrative?
I have a friend who went on a date soon after his arrival in New York at the request of an associate. This friend had suggested that he go out for a night on the town with a pretty fashion blogger who lived in Brooklyn. The night went swimmingly, drinks were had, food consumed, and my friend, the Manhattan newbie, was stunned by the wit, grace, and charm of the lady writer. At the end of the night, in the wee hours of the morning, my friend parted ways with the woman, putting her in a cab, and sending her from the final watering hole they had closed out back to her pad in the county of Kings. He was a gentleman, and although he had wanted to rendez-vous in the carnal sense, he knew better than to go that fast, especially since she seemed like multiple-date material.
About two hours later, just shy of five in the morning, his phone rings. The female blogger has a leak in her apartment, everything she owns has been destroyed! She is sobbing. He is the only person who she knows is awake. She asks him to come over and console her. He refuses, as he has just begun a tipsy descent into dreamland on the Upper East Side. Without inviting her over, and without much more than a sincere apology and a promise to call her tomorrow, he hangs up. The next morning his full name is featured on her well-trafficked blog, along with the question, "Whatever Happened To Chivalry?"
And such is the double-edged sword of first-person writing, especially in the age of new media. To paraphrase one of my favorite quotes, we will make weapons of our imperfections. And it seems like some of us will skewer you on those weapons if we so choose.
I wrote the New York Press piece because I found the situation hilarious, if a little creepy, not because I was feeling vindictive. Early in this blog’s nascent I chronicled how I wished I were a sex columnist and how I didn’t know how to go about doing that. Well, if having strangers send me their queries for queer advice can’t happen, I can do the next best thing, which is writing about the bizarre situations that I’ve encountered when it comes to dating, sex, and exploring my twenties. There are a handful of places that look for humorous, smut-oriented, first person accounts, and they’re much more versatile when it comes to the portfolio.
But what of the exhibitionists who entrusted me with their penises? Shouldn’t they have a say? Most of my nearest and dearest could easily figure out who is who from the subtle hints (their profession, their location, the mention of a double-chin,) is that really fair? My answer is, in this case, yes. I could go on a long schpeel about how writers, musicians, artists, etc. all are influenced by the people they encounter and the experiences that they stumble through, how artistic integrity is a direct relation of subjectivity. And I would be a pretentious cunt. The heart of the matter is this: I wrote what was true because it was easier than struggling to come up with fictional identities.
What if I wrote that Simon was Trent Reznor,’s doppelganger, with a knack for needlepoint, and a penchant for new-wave music and Dep hair gel. None of this is true, yet all of it is attractive to me. (Sorta.) But coming up with all of that, and keeping it consistent, would require me to step outside of whatever account I was recalling, and add a layer of distance between my writing and what I was trying to convey. I mean it in the best of ways when I say that when I’m writing non-fiction, I have to forget about the way anybody might feel. It’s an exercise in selfishness, but it’s the only way I can keep the words coming and not slip into neurotic self-talk. I want everyone to like me. Every day I have to grapple with the fact that not everybody will. But maybe one day I’ll get the perfect hair-cut and all of that will change. Until then, I shoot from the fingers first, ask questions later, and accept the fact that there might be consequences by way of yelling or keys kissing the paint of my car.
When I read personal narrative or non-fiction, I hope that I am being brought into a world that the author wants me to be present in, the same way that I want to suspend my disbelief every time I hear a fish story in my uncle’s garage. Of course I don’t expect everything to be sworn on a Bible, but I do want the integrity of the one recounting the tale to be giving me the best blow-by-blow that they can. For me personally, protecting the innocent, or in this case, the not so innocent, would be disingenuous and hurt my writing. So I didn’t even think about doing it, and when confronted with the possibility that my article might make someone upset, I took the somewhat dick-nozzley approach of, "Well, oops. Too late."
At times I want to write about certain things that I just know better than to confront. Either the story will hurt a friend, shame my family, or cause distress in some way or another. Those stories, no matter how scintillating and funny, I don’t write. It’s not a sacrifice, it’s just good juju. In a case like this, however, it’s a very different nut to crack. (Intended. Again.) I figure that if someone puts themselves in a position so ridiculous as to be offensive — supporting Sarah Palin, reneging on a payment, sending me an unsolicited photograph of their penis — I have a right to string them up with words. Half of humor is the oh shit factor. But I’m still convinced that writers have to take into account that sometimes, even with the best intentions, those closest to the page are bound to get burned. After all, we’re all a little self-obsessed. (Who hasn’t Googled themselves yet?) Looking for your likeness in the art of a companion is only human, I think. So maybe it’s just a little reminder for me not to do anything too stupid, lest I wind up being flogged, or blogged, into shame.
Tags: Augusten Burroughs, jounalism, karma police, non-fiction, penises, sell yourself, sex columnist, The New York Press, truth
