Dear Madam, with all due respect, fiction, especially good fiction, according to Tolkien, has 'the inner consistency of reality', which is my roundabout way of saying comparing science with fiction is not all that bad, or so I seem to think, given my puny brain ;)
Ah, this is like catnip to me as a memoirist. Absolutely right: the danger zones of our lives are where the most meaningful stories wait. And sometimes a good narrative plays up those unlikeable qualities in our past selves a little bit for dramatic effect. I've done this in my own book, often to highlight ignorance in childhood or young adulthood, or to show the irony of participating in obnoxious behavior (like marching through the streets of my hometown with my church) while still being a relative innocent.
An example I love to teach in memoir writing classes comes from Danielle Ofri's award-winning essay, "Merced" (from her debut collection Singular Intimacies). Spoiler alerts! At the beginning of the essay, Ofri has made a seemingly miraculous diagnosis of Lyme Disease in New York City, and she's basking in the glow of that along with her sense of superiority as she nears the end of her residency, when she realizes that the diagnosis is wrong, and that there's nothing she can do to save her patient. All of her medical training is seemingly for nothing, and she collapses in the arms of her patient's family. What's very powerful about this reversal is that Ofri plays up her arrogance near the beginning of the essay. I know her -- she's never been like that around me -- but there can be some benefit to exaggerating your unlikeable characteristics if you're setting that narrative persona up for a fall later on.
Dear Madam, with all due respect, fiction, especially good fiction, according to Tolkien, has 'the inner consistency of reality', which is my roundabout way of saying comparing science with fiction is not all that bad, or so I seem to think, given my puny brain ;)
Ah, this is like catnip to me as a memoirist. Absolutely right: the danger zones of our lives are where the most meaningful stories wait. And sometimes a good narrative plays up those unlikeable qualities in our past selves a little bit for dramatic effect. I've done this in my own book, often to highlight ignorance in childhood or young adulthood, or to show the irony of participating in obnoxious behavior (like marching through the streets of my hometown with my church) while still being a relative innocent.
An example I love to teach in memoir writing classes comes from Danielle Ofri's award-winning essay, "Merced" (from her debut collection Singular Intimacies). Spoiler alerts! At the beginning of the essay, Ofri has made a seemingly miraculous diagnosis of Lyme Disease in New York City, and she's basking in the glow of that along with her sense of superiority as she nears the end of her residency, when she realizes that the diagnosis is wrong, and that there's nothing she can do to save her patient. All of her medical training is seemingly for nothing, and she collapses in the arms of her patient's family. What's very powerful about this reversal is that Ofri plays up her arrogance near the beginning of the essay. I know her -- she's never been like that around me -- but there can be some benefit to exaggerating your unlikeable characteristics if you're setting that narrative persona up for a fall later on.
See for yourself -- "Merced" is available for free on Ofri's homepage: https://danielleofri.com/merced/
Interesting example! Maybe I can pretend that I'm, uh, exaggerating for dramatic effect when I discuss my worst behaviors . . .