His story raises an interesting question, though – what does it mean for a memoir to be accurate? One of the largest issues we dealt with was the matter of dialogue. He wanted to be absolutely scrupulous, telling stories precisely as they happened. But in his original draft, his characters only spoke when he could remember what they said word-for-word. Since the manuscript was written years after the fact, this meant he used very little dialogue – mostly bursts of highly memorable lines like, “I must live, I must tell!” Nearly all the rest of his conversations were narrative summary, and many of his scenes felt flat and distant as a result. He was telling the story to readers rather than letting them experience it.
I agreed with his absolute scruple about accuracy, but argued that he needed to focus on a different kind of accuracy – narrative accuracy rather than literal accuracy. He needed to create dialogue that would make his readers feel the way he felt at the time. This meant literally putting words in his characters’ mouths, even if those words conveyed the gist of a dialogue that actually happened. But since the point of his narrative was to allow his readers to experience what he had experienced, the scenes with recreated dialogue were more accurate than the flat, emotionless scenes.
Many memoirists have taken this technique a step further and created composite characters. For instance, in Dreams of my Father, President Obama’s “New York girlfriend” was actually an amalgam of several girlfriends he’d had in New York and Chicago. I’d argue that combining several minor characters into a single character who represents the type is another form of narrative accuracy. If you had, for instance, several high school teachers who inspired you in similar ways, you could take the time to create each of them as a minor character. But all these excess characters would do more than simply slow your narrative down. By spending time on each teacher, you would give your readers the impression that your high school experiences meant more to you than they actually did. The writing is strictly accurate, but the story as a whole is thrown off.
Society would remember the Holocaust differently if there were no survivors to tell the story, but only data, records and photographs. The stories of victims and survivors weave together the numbers to create a truth that is tangible to the human experience… The combination of the personal and narrative truth gives human context to the grainy black and white photos. As a result, the narrative truths combine with factual truth create a holistic picture of the Warsaw Ghetto and the Holocaust. This need for the narration of human experience seems innate...
It’s easier to understand important points when there’s a structure to follow. And it’s easier for us to remember—particularly if it is a lively and engaging piece.
If we over-simplify a story to fit it into a narrative arc, are we being truthful?
This gets us into an area where people start to see different shades of gray.
I think it helps to ask a few questions:
Am I leaving out key details because including them messes with the narrative flow?
Do I skip context because it makes the piece less compelling?
Am I framing anything in a way that makes the story look black and white when the reality is far more complex and nuanced?
Do I exclude facts and circumstances because they clutter the piece and may bore readers?
Why do we want to know the truth? Sometimes it’s out of curiosity, sometimes for it’s own sake, but arguably the strongest reason is because it allows us to act effectively in the world.
However, acting effectively in the world isn’t just about knowing true facts about it. The human brain is fundamentally a meaning-making machine. When we are exposed to new facts, these update our current narratives and frames and it is usually via this indirect route that facts change our we live in the world.
Narratives build upon untrue facts can lead us down the wrong path, but the responsible use of artistic license often allows us model the world accurately more than the plain, unvarnished truth. Too much unnecessary detail confuses people, wears out their patience or interferes with the emotional impact. Simply throwing facts at someone is unlikely to be effective. Instead, you are much more likely to influence people if your communication style is comprehensible and engaging. And sometimes that requires some minor sacrifices in terms of literal accuracy.
Narrative truth
One idea I encountered when investigating Jordan Peterson was the idea of narrative truth.
This is the kind of concept that most people nod along too, but which is almost always left implicit, so I thought it’d be worthwhile doing so here.
Let’s quote what some other people have written on this subject:
Literal and Narrative Truth—Dave King
Storytelling and Narrative Truth
Truth in Storytelling
Why do we want to know the truth? Sometimes it’s out of curiosity, sometimes for it’s own sake, but arguably the strongest reason is because it allows us to act effectively in the world.
However, acting effectively in the world isn’t just about knowing true facts about it. The human brain is fundamentally a meaning-making machine. When we are exposed to new facts, these update our current narratives and frames and it is usually via this indirect route that facts change our we live in the world.
Narratives build upon untrue facts can lead us down the wrong path, but the responsible use of artistic license often allows us model the world accurately more than the plain, unvarnished truth. Too much unnecessary detail confuses people, wears out their patience or interferes with the emotional impact. Simply throwing facts at someone is unlikely to be effective. Instead, you are much more likely to influence people if your communication style is comprehensible and engaging. And sometimes that requires some minor sacrifices in terms of literal accuracy.