I have come to terms – almost – with the idea that I will never produce a perfect book. Bear in mind, I’m not speaking of aesthetic perfection, which I always knew was beyond my abilities. I’m talking about a book without typos or factual inaccuracies.
So far, I’ve learned of four mistakes in WHAT THE DEAD KNOW. So far. Those who have contacted me, by e-mail and in person, have been exceptionally kind. Usually, the factual errors – inconsequential to the story, but of great consequence to me – would bother me the most. But in this case, I am far more upset about one of the typos, in the author’s note. In discussing the Lyon sisters, I transposed the “i” and the “l.” Her name was Sheila Lyon, and I am heartsick over the fact that it does not appear that way in the text. It will, in the paperback edition and any future editions of the hardcover. But still . . .
Given that I recently was upset by a non-apology apology, I am more determined than ever to say “I’m sorry,” without any additional rationalization, explanation, defense. It’s hard. It’s always hard to be wrong, but it’s particularly hard in this case. Still, that’s all I can say: I’m sorry.
Over the past month, I’ve fielded a lot of questions about the Lyon sisters, which is somewhat ironic, as I purposely limited my research into their story, determined to create a novel that was, as Patrick Anderson said in the Washington Post, “wholly fictional.” As readers of this blog know, I was asked if I used a real-life case in order to spike sales. I also have been asked, at almost every local appearance, if I tried to contact the Lyon family while writing the book.
I thought about it. I thought about it quite a bit. But, in the end, I thought such a call would have been more about me than about them. I would have been seeking benediction or permission. Worse, I might have seemed a ghoul, intent on feasting on their tragedy. So instead of calling them or writing them, I locked myself up in my own mind and tried to think my way into an unimaginable tragedy, one experienced by a family of my own particular creation, characters whose inner lives I could know. In the end – actually, from the beginning – I knew I could never tell the story of the Lyon family. Even in a nonfiction narrative, I doubt that one could truly tell that story.
When I explain this at book-signings – and I explained it just yesterday, at an event at the Randallstown branch of the Baltimore County Public Library – I feel that the answer doesn’t really satisfy. That’s the thing about real life, unlike a crime novel. The answers often don’t satisfy. Sometimes, there are no answers.
Sometimes, there are no answers.
That’s what I’ve run into when I’m writing some stories, and now that I’m working on a new novel. Sometimes, in real life, there aren’t any easy answers; sometimes not even hard ones.
You’ve done an excellent job and a marvelous book is the result. Quit beating up on yourself cause of some typos, for crying out loud
Love ya!
Bravo to you for having the forethought and compassion re the family. It must have been a really difficult decision.
I respect your consideration of the Lyons a great deal, but I think it’s also fair to remember that writers consciously and unconsciously draw from real life all the time, down to something someone did on the subway a few minutes ago to a murder 20 years ago. You can’t always choose what story wants to come. I always remember Philip Roth’s defense of the book that was essentially about his marriage to Claire Bloom — I’m sure the judge thought it was the most magnificent assemblage of crap when he said he couldn’t choose what in his real life would burst forth in his fiction, but unfortunately for most writers that’s mostly true.
Laura, your angst over the typo is understandable — we all want to book to be perfect — but it’s not necessary. The Lyon family, if they read the book, will more probably be thankful of your tact and graciousness, and not care about the mis-spelling.
Now, about the guy who spelled my name Louse in the acknowledgments …
I thought your explanation for not contacting the family at your appearance at Politics and Prose was clear and very understandable, as I believe did the other attendees.
You know, there is always someone out there who can’t wait to tell you that you missed something. For some people it is a way of life. You said those “inaccuracies” were inconsequential to the story, so let it be. The most you can do is update the next run and move on. Your choice.
Whenever I get a new car, I am nervous about something happening to it, something that will spoil the newness, the perfectness of it, like a parking lot ding or an accident, a spilled grape soda or coffee (or a teenaged son who drops the keys on the hood the same day you bring the car home–yes, it scratched the paint). As soon as I get the first scratch or spill, I breathe a sigh of relief because then the car isn’t perfect and I can enjoy it knowing that it isn’t perfect anymore.
Relax and enjoy your success. The only thing perfect about life is its imperfection.
I’m okay with being imperfect — good thing, otherwise I’d be very disappointed in myself all the time. But of all the errors to make . . . oh well, there was one book where Tess Monaghan’s name was misspelled on the cover.
And thanks, Lizzie, for posting that. The process of fiction is somewhat mysterious even to those of us who do it, and almost unfathomable to those who don’t. I compare my work to folk art or outsider art that uses found materials. In particular, I’ve cited the Baltimore Glassman, and how we don’t peer at his work and wonder if the green glass used to be part of a Rolling Rock bottle. It always makes me want to paraphrase James M. Cain who, in chiding the critics who compared him to Chandler and Hammett, said it was “naive . . . we don’t quite do it that way.”
And it’s interesting that you cited Roth, one of my favorites, because I was at one time wild to know something about Roth’s personal life. Then he published THE FACTS, which wasn’t, exactly, the facts (based on some angry letters written to Vanity Fair, in defense of his first wife). THE FACTS, however, did shed some light on some scenes from WHEN SHE WAS GOOD and while it was interesting to know the real-life inspiration, it didn’t change/amplify my experience of the novel. (One I like quite a bit, by the way; it contains one of my favorite passages of all time. In fact, I’m going to pull it off the shelf right now.)
This is the story of Ginny, brain-damaged, possibly by a fever, and her attachment to her young niece, Lucy:
“When Lucy ate an ice cream, Ginny’s eyes would get all happy and content, as thought she were eating it herself. Or if as a punishment Lucy was put to bed early, Ginny, too, would sob and go off to sleep like one doomed . . .”
But the real problem is that Ginny follows Lucy to school and calls her name out loud, over and over. They decide she’ll have to be put in a home. And her brother, who has cared for her all these years, drives her there.
“On the long drive to Beckstown, Willard tried over and over again to somehow make Ginny understand the situation, but no matter how many examples he used — look, there’s a cow, Ginny, and there’s another cow; there’s a tree and there’s another tree — he could not get her to see that Ginny was one person and Lucy was someone else. Around dinnertime they arrived. Taking her by the hand, he led her up the overgrown path to the long one-story wooden building where she was to spend the rest of her days. And why? Because she could not understand the most basic fact of human life, the fact that I am me and you are you.”
(c) Philip Roth
God, I love that — The most basic fact of human life, the fact that I am me and you are you.
I respect the way you handled this story and how you separated yourself from the reality to tell your own wholly fictional story about this type of tragedy, but I also respect it as a writer. Sometimes in order to get to a truth about a thing or an event, we have to experience all of the particulars, the nuances, the ‘moment’ the event happens, it has to be our own, and that’s not always doable if the experience is someone else’s life, someone else’s moment. But when we create that event for our characters and experience it through them, in their varying perspectives, we can start seeing the wholeness of the truth, the fractured glass in the mirror as well as the shards on the floor, and understand just how deeply the shards can cut when we’re stepping on them ourselves, through our character’s perspective. (If that makes any sense.)
I learned of your book today when I saw it on Salon.com’s list of great summer reads. At first, I was very dismayed because, you see, I grew up in Kensington, Maryland in the 70s, went to school with the Lyon sisters at Oakland Terrace Elementary school and lived less than a quarter of a mile from them. I didn’t know them well. The youngest was a year older than me. But, I roamed the same neighborhood they did, including walking to Wheaton Plaza on nice spring days and having a sundae at Farrell’s or going for a swim at the Glenmont pool. I remember clearly those horrible days when everyone in the neighborhood went out and literally beat the bushes looking for them and children were afraid to play outside.
Anyway, as you can imagine, when I read the synopsis for your book I realized right away that it had been inspired by their story. I felt sick inside. My heart went out to their family, and I worried what might be in your plot to hurt them. Then, I found your website and this explanation of how you tackled your subject, and I’m much relieved. I can tell you approached your book with much consideration for the Lyon family and with true integrity to your own creative process. Thanks for that! And I wish the book much success.