In his presentation at this summer’s conference, Bob Shacochis rejects the practices of confession as catharsis for personal gain and nonfiction done for the sake of shock value. Two members of our tribe, Jayme Rutledge and George Newtown (see his essay), have weighed in on the issue. We want to hear from the rest of our literary tribe. Please read Bob’s speech and and join our pow-wow by offering your thorough and thoughtful response.
Adios,
George Getschow
I almost hesitate to even respond to Bob Shacochis’ presentation, for two reasons. First, it’s one of those inspiring pieces that make me feel like all that’s left to be said is a hearty “amen!” Not to mention that, frankly, my writing feels ridiculously inadequate after reading something so well-written that addresses such lofty and important ideas.
I think the idea that sometimes there are some things in writing that you shouldn’t say is something that all writers, if they get very far in the profession without throwing in the towel, have to figure out for themselves. Shacochis talks a lot about being self-serving in your writing, and I think the core dilemma that a writer faces is one that every person in any profession faces, although in different ways. Do I (through my writing, in our case) serve myself or do I serve others? Why am I doing this? What’s the point I’m trying to get across?
That’s why I love journalism and non-fiction. There are some sensationalists out there, to be sure, but journalism just has the potential to do so much good. When a writer is so inspired by a story that they have to tell it, and they tell it well and tell it truthfully, readers are affected. Some readers are inspired to do something great and meaningful that they wouldn’t have done otherwise. I think that’s a unique power and a great privilege. I can’t think of any other profession that has the potential to change people in such a profound way.
But there’s potential for darkness too, and Shacochis addresses that. The line must be treaded carefully, which is a little bit terrifying. Shacochis broke my heart with the example about the journalist who wrote the piece supporting the war in Iraq, and the repercussions of that piece. As much as I want to believe no harm would ever come from my writing, how can I ever really be sure?
There are so many issues that Shacochis brings up in his presentation, and he reminds me, yet again, that it is a serious and fragile journey that I’m embarking on when I practice journalism and the craft of non-fiction writing.
Essay Response to Bob Shacochis’ Conference speech
Intimidated. Intimidated and yet overwhelmingly captivated. That’s probably the best way to describe my first reaction when reading Bob Shacochis’ speech from the Mayborn Conference this past summer.
Oh, and silent – I am conveniently silent. “Speechless” seems too trite and cliché. Silent, on the other hand, seems all too appropriate.
What do you say after reading (or hearing, in others’ cases) that speech? You’re compelled to speak, yet if you say something, will it be regarded as self-aggrandizing? You want to share your thoughts and opinions, but is the act of doing so contradicting Shacochis’ argument in the first place?
Shacochis talks about the virtue we as writers are not too familiar with: the virtue of silence. When, in our writing, do we need to censor ourselves? When do we need to draw the line?
Shacochis offers a simple suggestion: When our writing is no longer serving the community, but rather, is used as a means of catharsis for ourselves – our own outlet for escape from our inner demons.
I heard a writer and acquaintance say once, “Writing is like breathing for me. If I can’t write, I can’t live.” Getting past the melodramatic tendencies, what, in terms of a topic, is that acquaintance talking about? Writing about themselves? For themselves? Shouldn’t then a diary or journal do them justice? Or is it the act of allowing their words to fall upon public eyes and ears that gives them “air” to breathe?
Shacochis also examines the use of “shock value” for just that reason… its use of shock toward the reader. Is including such vulgar details, such as describing the “technique in performing fellatio,” really necessary? Ultimately, does it contribute some way to society? If it were perhaps articulated in a different manner, would it find purpose? Or is the act of purely writing it for sensationalism just that – an act?
Shacochis sees the need for fiction. Fiction doesn’t hold as high of a critique in terms of honesty and shock value. But are we de-humanizing something when we fictionalize it? By doing so, does it become more translucent, rather than opaque, and we are more apt to say, “Well, it’s just fiction,” thereby assuming it might not possibly be real?
This brings me to wonder, however, why Shacochis never mentioned the word “art.” In terms of the art world, almost anything that pushes the envelope is revered, embraced, and rewarded. Not in every case, and maybe not initially, but usually. The use of “shock value” is ever-present. It is the driving force that pushes the envelope. Artists will say they do art for themselves and no one else. No one holds them accountable. It is their art and it comes from within.
In that sense, could not a writer find his musings as art?
In the case of Irene Vilar, could her controversial memoir – in its first draft, using the stomach-wrenching first line, “I have had fifteen abortions in the last twelve years and they were the best years of my life” – be considered artistic? Common sense says no. Common sense instead uses the word “inhumane” – something I whole-heartedly agree with. But to play the devil’s advocate, would the argument of censorship still be present if Vilar had referred to and presented her own memoir as a work of “art”?
Shacochis makes a great point in saying that we as writers need to be held accountable. He says, “accountability, in fact, is the true gateway to honesty.”
Then of course, the truth of the subject matter (the abortions themselves) would have to be debated. Art is art, after all – sometimes drawn from life experiences, and other times completely fabricated, losing truth altogether in order to make a point or convey a concept.
“Shock art” is nothing necessarily new, but it is definitely present and growing in today’s culture. Should writers be considered artists in the literary sense? Or is the act of using the word “artist” simply an escape and excuse from having to be held accountable for one’s own narcissistic tendencies?
I can’t answer these questions; I only raise them.
Shacochis wrote a captivating speech – and most importantly, he raised questions. My inner-monologue never came to a stop while reading his words.
He goes beyond surface level. He questions silence. He questions speech.
And I question the fact that I chose to put the pronoun “I” into this essay, therefore giving in to my own unbeknownst narcissistic tendencies, and defeating the purpose of this essay in the first place…
Sigh.
When to say nothing and when to speak out
According to Bob Shacochis at the Mayborn Conference, he would say to be silent when talking of one’s own experiences literally. He was adamant about not speaking in nonfiction about one’s life if it involves anybody who is still alive when he contradicted the phrase, “When you write, write as if everyone you know is dead.” But rather, “write nonfiction as if everyone they know or have known is very much alive, and their feelings, their humanity, their lives, must be taken into account, for the sake of your own soul, and for the sake of the integrity of the work of literary art you are trying to create.”
This makes me wonder if I have hurt anybody with anything that I have written and it should keep me cautious of writing in the future. I do not believe that a journalist should be censored by another person’s feelings, humanity or life. I believe that all journalists should know what they can and cannot write based on their own personal feelings. By my own moral code, I know what would hurt another person and if it would cause another person direct harm, I would not write it; not necessarily slight embarrassment, but dire pain, absolute direct pain.
This may seem to be shallow, but if it will help the story move forward, or is a direct part of the story, it is a necessity. When Shacochis spoke of Irene Vilar who told of her “fifteen abortions in the last twelve years,” I was surprised. I was even more caught off guard by the fact that he told her to change her story. I am aware that she had not explained why she had the abortions, but the fact that she has had even one abortion is story-eligible, but fifteen! This is a story all in itself, even if there was no story behind it. Be it because she enjoys not using birth control, or she just found an abortion center that you get the fifteenth abortion free, it is still a story.
I do understand his point because of the many people in the world who are problem-prone and want a story written about them. I will echo Shacochis by saying that, “The world is too painful, don’t make me look at it, I just want to run away, when the truth is, nothing should be too much for us except inauthenticity, the erosion of human dignity, or unmitigated insanity.” It may be just my understanding of this, but what I get from this phrase is: I do not like a lot of things going on this world, but I do like knowing of them. If this is true, then a story should be told even if there is no end result than to let others know what is going on.
I personally have written nonfiction about myself and others before without regard to if it would hurt another person or not. Of course it was not published and has never been in the hands of those it would hurt, for the fear that it would hurt these people. The first concern of all journalists and writers should be: to be silent when you know you need to be, to be heard when you know it helps the story (even it can hurt).