Artistic License

I am crammed into a refrigerated conference room among seventy-five other train wrecks with whom I share a common goal:  to write a memoir that sells. Like a gaggle of uniformed school children, I notice that most of us appear to be wearing khakis in various states of wrinkled with either black or blue V-neck sweaters.  For me, this is simply one of my many costumes. At last night’s “Rats Have Rights” event, I was decked out in a sexy little black number, teetering along in my Jimmy Choo sky-high heels.  I imagine this is our collective attempt to resemble serious, no-nonsense writers.

Judith, a dignified, bespectacled “Who’s Who” in the glitterary world of creative non-fiction, stands behind an imposing lectern and with an air of authority proclaims, “You must write about something you have expertise in!”  I do not believe I’m an expert in anything—though, my closest friends would describe me as a confident woman who is quite knowledgeable about business, finance, and the Chicago Cubs.  This is because I am genetically built to be a bullshitter.

I inherited the mendacity gene from my father, Ray, who would brag even into his fifties that he was the star player on his high school basketball team.  Sitting at the head of our Formica kitchen table, he would proudly reminisce about his “championship-winning clutch shot against St. Michael’s.” Despite being only ten years old, I knew he was lying; his lack of eye contact and the inconsistencies in his story gave him away.  But how could I possibly fact-check his story? He was from a small town in Indiana—hundreds of miles from Chicago—and his high school no longer existed. Though, if were a precocious, Nancy Drew-type of child, I suppose I could have tracked down one of his old compadres and gotten the real scoop.

Perversely, I appreciated Ray’s sloppy lying.  It educated me in what not to do when you are going to create a more enticing view of reality.  It wasn’t until I spent some quality time with my Uncle Manny, a large, beefy scoundrel, who was the proud owner of a RadioShack, that I learned the tricks of the trade.  These included:  keep your lies simple and base them in truth, employ vague language, and, most important, ensure others can substantiate your story.  For instance, when he decided to go with his best friend, Lou, on a gambling junket to Atlantic City, he told my Chihuahua-eyed, Aunt Tootie, “Honey, ya’ know I hate to leave ya, but me and Lou gotta to fly out to the East Coast for the electronics show.”  Except for the two words “electronics show,” Uncle Manny was perfectly honest—plus, he had Lou as his alibi.   

This lie occurred in 1974, long before the advent of the Internet—which, incidentally, has been a real setback for those of us who are driven to manipulate truths.

Like the Bernie Madoffs and Bill Clintons of the world, I came up through the school of hard knocks.  For example, in my desire to be “top dog” in my Girl Scout troop, I became determined to earn more merit badges than anyone else.  These symbols of achievement, which I now suspect were designed to keep young girls from having sex too early, were earned by demonstrating excellence in activities ranging from cookie selling to arts and crafts, camping, and more.  

I was neck-and-neck with top scout, Paula Winkler, except she possessed the much-coveted Mountain Badge.  Unfortunately, mountaineering was out of my reach—since Illinois is the second flattest state in the U.S., and also because my family was too lazy and explosive to ever go on a “We love hiking in nature and let’s spend lots of quality family time together” kind of vacation.  In fact, the only trip we ever took was to Miami Beach, where we constantly ate, fought, and changed clothes for five days.

Blinded by ambition, I lied to our scout leader, Mrs. Lamb, claiming that my family had recently gone on “a super-fun climbing trip in the Smoky Mountains.”  Looking into her trusting brown eyes, I sensed her pride in me. Handing her the sloppily forged application for the coveted Mountain Badge, I beamed as I anticipated its arrival in the mail.  

One week later, Mrs. Lamb ran into my mother, 170 pounds of pure aggression stuffed into a lime green polyester jumpsuit, at the supermarket.  Suspecting the woman who’d spawned me wasn’t quite the outdoorsy type, Mrs. Lamb coyly asked, “Vivian, did you enjoy your trip to the Smokies?” As my mother hurled three Sara Lee coffee cakes into her cart, she responded,  “Dorothy, what the hell are you talking about?” From there the conversation devolved into a trial scene where the lawyer (Mrs. Lamb) demanded the truth from the key witness (my mother).

Needless to say, my beloved scout leader realized the only climbing I had ever done was ascending the flight of stairs to my weekly Girl Scout meeting.  It was apparent that I had revised the sacred Girl Scout Promise from “On my honor, I will try . . .” to “By hook or crook, I will try . . .” Thankfully, my friendship with her daughter, Mary Beth, prevented my expulsion from the troop, though, Mrs. Lamb did insist that my mother agree to dispose of the plagiarized badge upon its arrival.  

I was grounded for the next month, which was quickly reduced to a week due to my incessant practicing of Burt Bacharach songs on our twice-inherited piano.  My parents could not stomach another rendition of “Alfie.”

When the tarnished emblem of mountaineering arrived in the mail, my mother dutifully threw it into the kitchen trash can.  Later, as she sat in the den glued to her favorite television soap, “All My Children,” I slinked into the kitchen and fished out the stained badge from its place among empty cans of Alpo and food scraps.  Always ready to seize upon an opportunity, I wondered, Should I apply for the Environmental Badge?

After creeping upstairs to my Cinderella-themed bedroom, I immediately sequestered the badge in my jewelry box to serve as a painful reminder of my carelessness.  Feeling a few beers short of a six-pack, I whispered to the three Barbie dolls propped up on the dresser, “I’ll do better the next time.”

The noisy pumping of arctic air through the vents above our heads jolts me back to the present.  As Judith’s lecture drones on, my attention is drawn to something she says:  “Embellishment is necessary for creative non-fiction.  Embellishment . . .”

What?  She is telling us to lie!  A warm, tingly sensation spreads through my chest as I begin to see the limitless books yet to be written.  In some kind of grand act of alchemy, my greatest sin could become my most essential asset as a writer.  I can finally reclaim that Mountain Badge—if not physically, at least in spirit.

I go home absolved.  Words, essays, stories will pour onto paper.  I have been granted “artistic license.” And I can see the dedication page of my first collection:  “To Uncle Manny, who taught me well.”