I think it would be fair to say all writers write about themselves even if they don’t because what we omit is as revealing as what we include in whatever it is we write. Besides, writing, like all the other art forms, is an attempt to communicate something to someone, otherwise why make it public? We all can’t be like Emily Dickinson, but even she showed her work to some people even if she did not publish it. And I am no different than any other writer in that I, too, within the act of communicating, expose myself.
Actually I’ve always said that to understand my character one would have to read my books because though the books are not necessarily factual in regards to my life (they are fiction, after all), the tone or voice of my books is all me. My sensibility, as it were. But the facts/details in the books in the back stories of the various characters, in the events described, are partially mine and also belong to those people I have known, whether friends or acquaintances, or even passing strangers. So you can’t think I am the characters, but I am the books.
Which leads me to explain why I have suddenly begun writing these pieces on this blog that are included in the “thoughts and observations” category. I am, in this way, putting down the facts, my facts, or at least the way I remember them, which is, of course, subjective, but which is something I feel at this stage in my life compelled to do.
So I’ve written about my two fathers, my brothers, on the differences between the youth of today and my generation, on protests, on my bookstore, on life in LA, among other things, and will soon write about my mother, the other women in my life (grandmother, aunts, in regards to how they have influenced me in terms of the women I have chosen to become involved with), my dog, the men in my life (grandfather, uncles, and the effect they have had on my character), and who knows what else. It is all a new venue for me: nonfiction. Chapters in what I suppose could be called a personal memoir. Something my friend Chuck Thegze has been after me to do for some time now, so Chuck, and I know you read these because you comment on them, thanks for the motivation.
Why now? Well, why not? But to go beyond the pat answer, because in talking about these facts to the few readers who actually read them, I am also recording what happened so that I can continue to understand why I ended up where I am. I think if I were back in the US among my friends, I might not be doing this, even with Chuck’s urging, because I would be having conversations with some of the friends who are reading these, and you all know who you are, during our normal interaction. But here, in Turkey, where I have no real friends, I find this is an adequate substitute, or at least the only substitute open to me. For though I find myself relaying stories here to people around me, I know they are only half listening, their interest level in me being minimal, being defined by the nature of our relationship: student or teacher working for me. They have to at least pretend interest, though I can tell very, very few are really interested. I know this because though I’ve given books to many people here, only a few have actually read them. And though I used to share the posts with facebook “friends”, I only now share them with the handful of designated “close friends” since these posts are too personal to share with people with whom I would not be having those conversations with in person.
And I think also I am at that stage where I now regret having no family of my own. I think of my brother Johnny, or close friends like Dave Capus who have offspring that they can relate their stories to. But I, for reasons now that somehow do not seem as important as they once did, managed not to. And so these remembrances are really my way of passing on these stories, of not letting the ghosts in my life fade away. So with the indulgence of those who are only interested in the poetry that I mostly post, I say that these memories will keep popping up, for they seem to be buzzing around my head, waking me up in the middle of the night and demanding I pay attention. And this is not a good thing because I don’t sleep well to begin with, but now, besides all those fictional characters that call out to me to give them a voice and who, at times, seem more flesh and blood than the people I share the ferry and bus with, that sit in classrooms or the cafeteria, that bump into me on street corners or at Ali Usta’s when I’m just trying to get my two scoops of walnut and almond ice cream, now, yes, now there are these shadows that have come out from behind the curtains, from under the bed, from along the walls, and they say, Len, it’s time to tell our stories, too.
So I listen up. And I record. And if you’re not interested, just skip over these pieces and wait for the next poem because there will be more poetry. I can assure you of that.