The ineluctable modality of the memorable.

            I just came back from a trip to my hometown, King of Prussia, PA, a suburban ring city about fifteen miles outside Philadelphia.         

When we moved there in 1958, it was a somnambulant country town, with cow fields, a couple of gas stations and a single supermarket, now a misnomer, since that A&P could fit into the produce department of an average Whole Foods.  Two buildings held K- 6, and junior and senior high schools.  Now there’re a half dozen elementary schools, and the high school looks like Stanford University, after it opened a satellite campus on Mars.  There’s also a shopping center, purportedly the third largest in the country, and the kind of sprawl William Gibson might have imagined after consuming a handful of magic mushrooms.    

            Though that’s not the point of the essay.  It’s more about memory.  I hadn’t seen the place in a few decades and the transformation was so complete I kept getting lost.  The roadways had changed, as had the route numbers, many of my familiar landmarks were gone, and while place and street names were mostly the same, they were lined with alien structures with strange logos and grotesque encroachments on adjacent properties.  I’d gone forward in the Time Machine, and the Morlocks had learned to live in the sun and taken over. 

            My wife says I have the directional sense of a carrier pigeon.  Before GPS we traveled all over Europe and parts of Asia and Australia with only maps and dead reckoning.  But in this situation, I was constantly befuddled.  Surprisingly, knowing a little is worse than knowing nothing.  Throw in a twenty-plus-year absence, and I was done for, so systemically disoriented I even had trouble finding our hotel room.  My wife asked, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” 

            Anyone who quibbles over factual errors in a memoir knows nothing about brain science.  Aside from outright fabrication a la George Santos or James Fry, and some argue William Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” (one of my favorite books), if the author is earnestly trying to recall what they experienced, they’re only recounting what they think happened, what they sincerely believe is true, with little chance of getting it right.

               I’ve made peace with this.  I’m simply happy that I remember anything at all, however illusory.  If my brain has put a nicer polish on the experience, that’s fine.  Why not.  The insight that matters for writers is that the line between fiction and non-fiction is pretty fuzzy.  My admiration for the work of historians is boundless, but earnest research won’t make what they're citing less flawed, incomplete, and often wildly inaccurate. 

            What was the best of times for one guy was the worst of times for the guy in the next apartment, or office cubicle, or bunk bed. 

            If you want to take this to the logical extreme, you can invoke quantum mechanics.  Physicists will tell you with a straight face that reality is all just an approximation, a frothy admixture of probabilities determined only by the perspective of the observer, which may conflict with other observations, none of which describe any objective truth.  Heisenberg proved you’ll never know anything with absolute certainty, and no one has yet proven him wrong, even Albert Einstein, though he sure tried (it turns out God does play dice). 

            We’re told to write what we know, which is basically good advice.  All works of fiction are semi-autobiographical, since we mine our own lives for material.  Yet those experiences may or may not have happened.  Your brain has played tricks on you, having you believe things that are distortions at best, and very likely contrivances made in whole cloth without your awareness or approval. 

            So what?  What matters is the quality of the story, the skill with the language and the effect it has on the reader, who has permission to distort all of it to their own liking.