Sheryl Sorrentino

A few readers seem to have a problem with my choosing to write Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz as autobiographical fiction instead of a memoir. I will admit, at first this decision was driven mainly by a desire not to advertise Millie’s troubled personal history as my own. But equally compelling was my belief that I could not present this story as entirely factual. I was prompted to write this book once I found out about events that had occurred before I was born, were deliberately concealed from me, or took place behind the scenes of my own life. How could I proffer such inherently secondhand, after-the-fact information as absolute truth?

But now, after receiving comments that Later With Myself should have been penned as a memoir, I decided to delve into the issue further. While this exercise has only confirmed that I made the right choice, I am more confused than ever as to what genre of book I did write.

According to educator and author Ed Davis, autobiographical fiction allows the author to change names, make up characters, present different points of view, and favor dramatic action over exposition, which is what I thought I did. But apparently, it isn’t that simple.

“Word Nerd” Taylor Houston (who pens a blog called “Writer’s Cramp”) claims that autobiographical fiction is “primarily comprised of made up events and characters that may be based on the author’s own experience and self.” According to Houston, in autobiographical fiction, the protagonist “might be modeled after the author and do at least some of the things the author has actually done in his or her life,” but “the ratio of truth to fiction will be somewhat small.” (See http://litreactor.com/columns/autobiographical-fiction-using-your-real-life-to-craft-great-fiction.) Okay, now I’m confused. Later With Myself is mostly true, with only a few made-up story lines and events. So according to Taylor, I did not write autobiographical fiction.

Houston seems to use the terms “memoir” and “fictionalized autobiography” interchangeably, which gives me pause. As I understand it, the main difference between a “memoir” and an “autobiography” is simply a matter of time or scope: Both are nonfiction genres, but an autobiography covers the author’s life from cradle to present, whereas a memoir focuses on a shorter period, or particular aspect, of the author’s life. Taylor, however,  distinguishes between “fictionalized autobiography” and “autobiographical fiction,” claiming that, while both contain “tidbits” about the author’s life, the former is “mostly a truthful telling of the author’s experience with sections fictionalized to ‘protect the innocent’, [fill in] gaps where memory fails, and occasionally [rearrange] events for maximum narrative effect.”  Hmm. I did all of that, too. So, did I write a “fictionalized autobiography,” as opposed to autobiographical fiction? Now I’m really confused.

Maybe Diana Raab can shed some light on all of this. She’s a “memoirist, essayist and poet” with a Master of Fine Arts in Nonfiction Writing. In her post, “Autobiographical Fiction vs. Fictional Memoirs” (http://dianaraab.com/blog/2011/08/30/autobiographical-fiction-vs-fictional-memoirs/), Ms. Raab characterizes “fictional memoir” as something that “generally focuses on an actual story, time or event in the writer’s life, but also incorporates . . . fiction or fictional technique.” Okay, that must be what I did. But wait—aren’t all memoirs, by definition, nonfiction? That being the case, how can one possibly write a “fictional memoir?” Had James Frey known this, he might have had a handy comeback for both Oprah and Doubleday!

Raab goes on to say: “An autobiographical novel . . . merges autobiographical and fictional techniques. . . [T]he names and places in the book are typically changed and events are recreated to give the story more of a dramatic arc. In other words, the events in the author’s life may be altered and thus the writer uses his or her ‘fictional license.’” Well, okay, I suppose I did that, too. So what kind of monster have I created? Is Later With Myself autobiographical fiction, “fictionalized autobiography,” or “fictional memoir”?

I hold a J.D., not a degree in creative writing (like Houston) nor an M.F.A. (like Raab), so I am hesitant to challenge these genre classifications (even though this humble lawyer questions whether they exist at all). I only know this much: I did the stupid things twelve-year-old Millie did, practically to the letter. I changed names and places in my novel. I fabricated or embellished certain scenes. I made up “Uncle Joey,” and speculated about “Cassie’s” and “Lee’s” motivations in doing some of the things they did. Do I know for a fact that “Cassie” coveted my bone marrow to save her son? No. I offered this as a possible explanation for why “Lee” sidled up to me when I turned eleven, causing me to lose my already flimsy emotional footing. Do I have “hard” evidence that my father imported drugs for the Mafia? No, I do not. But it’s certainly plausible, and adds color to an already compelling story. So, what have I done? Can someone please tell me?  

I’ve never had writer’s block. Maybe it’s because I have so little time to write, I try to make every second count. True, with all three of my manuscripts (and now a fourth in its embryonic stage), after completing the first chapter or two, there was a period when I thought my story was stupid and I lost all interest. But after a few months’ gestation, I got back into it and words began to flow.

I think some people get "writer's block" at this stage because they are trying to do more than simply get words down on paper. They forget that drafting a manuscript is only the first step. Crow croons, “The First Cut is the Deepest,” and as writing involves similar matters of the heart, we should expect a first draft to be the messiest by far.

Like labor and childbirth, no matter how long it took or the pain involved, when that baby emerges, it’s a little monster covered in goop. And like walking out of the hospital with your bundle of joy in arms, once you’ve finished your manuscript, the real work has only begun.

It takes eighteen to thirty-or-so years to raise a human capable of facing the world on his or her own. And so, a manuscript requires between eighteen and thirty edits (my opinion, I know) before its wobbly, little legs are sufficiently strong to waltz out in the form of a novel. It takes time to really examine our work and perform the painstaking surgery that ultimately brings those clumsy, flat words to life. That’s where most writers make their biggest mistake: We are so in love with our creations (and so exhausted from the months of labor), that we cannot see our little darlings objectively. We simply cannot accept that our creation is less than perfect.

A first edit should be nothing short of slash-and-burn (think grounding your kid from all electronics for an entire month). After that, we get into tune-ups, check-ups, and parent-teacher conferences (attended by anyone whose opinion you respect who's willing to honestly assess your writing). For me, this process utilizes several structures. I can only look at my double-spaced manuscript for so long before I stop catching things. Then I must review it in PDF format, and/or formatted into CreateSpace’s template so I can see how it reads in book form (it helps to have a completed cover by the time I get to this stage). My work takes on entirely different personae from these diverse vantage points—like my kid in action at the schoolyard or a party, when she doesn't know I'm watching.

Editing has many levels of nuance: At a minimum, timelines and other factual data must be double-checked for accuracy, and grammatical and typographical errors caught and cleansed. But you should also review for authenticity of dialogue and accents, while generally trying to “tighten” your narrative. I slash prepositions, connectors, and extraneous descriptive words. Finally, like putting that last buff on a newly-waxed car, I edit for rhythm and flow. The words should have a certain musicality to them, while conjuring a healthy number of mental images. (Here’s where a few glasses of wine—or your inebriant of choice—can help.) Even with a liberal dose of overlap, balancing these competing emphases will require at least ten thorough, front-to-back reads. It's simply a matter of putting in the time and doing the necessary legwork to make your baby something you can really be proud of. Does this guarantee that agents’ offers will flood your in-box, or that your book will sell millions of copies? Absolutely not. So, should you even bother? Absolutely. After all, only a handful of kids will turn out like Oprah Winfrey or Bill Gates. But that doesn't mean that every other child isn’t equally deserving of our time and effort.

In this fast-paced world, too many us are in a hurry to move on to the next thing before finishing the business we already have. Writing, like child rearing, is one of life’s greatest joys. And like raising children, it is rife with day-to-day tedium and occasional, heart-wrenching lows. Savor the moment! Once we toss our babies out into the world, they're gone from our grasp and there’s no getting them back.

Someone once told me that fiction writers construct their stories from a personal mosaic of life experience, casual observation, and imagination. I have found this to be true of own my writing (though for me, the hodgepodge can feel more like the makings of a bad dream), especially when it comes to crafting characters. 

I start by conjuring a mental sketch of someone I knew once upon a time. Okay, I am going to stop right there, because that confession makes me seem devious and unimaginative. Should I not be able to envision characters without relying on the physical and concomitant traits of real people? Who “owns” my mental images and impressions of folks I have met over the course of my life? As an attorney, I am far more comfortable answering that question as a legal matter than an ethical one.

Do I owe it to my myself—and my characters—to tell certain individuals that I thought of them when crafting my novels? Do I need their blessing? I think it's helpful to invoke The Golden Rule when evaluating such questions: How would I feel if the tables were turned? If I recognized things about myself in a book penned by someone I once knew, would I be pleased or pissed? Would I view the less flattering aspects of that character as defamatory, or whimsical?

I suppose I cannot answer that truthfully, as it has never occurred as far as I know. I take comfort in knowing that most humans—myself included—are so delusional about who we are vs. how we appear to others, that we probably wouldn’t recognize our fictional selves in any case.

As I prepare to launch my third novel, The Floater, later this year, I need to say a few words about the charged topics of sex, race and class. You may have noticed that my female protagonists aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer when it comes to men or sex. (And “floater” Norma Reyes will be no exception.) I realize that many best-sellers feature a nonthreatening female protagonist who could be a poster child for Ladies Home Journal, but my women are a bit sloppier than that.

It’s no secret that “Millie Moskowitz” depicts me as a child. Likewise, it shouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that certain points of view put forth in my second novel (An Unexpected Exile) are similarly borne from my having personally navigated the more treacherous waters of sex and intimacy in multi-cultural, male-female relationships. But here’s something interesting: Despite being a shoplifting, oversexed adolescent who picks up grown men for sport, twelve-year-old Millie Moskowitz seems to have won readers’ hearts. Twenty-nine-year old Risa Weinberg (An Unexpected Exile’s misguided, beleaguered protagonist), not so much.

Is it possible Risa discomfits readers more than Millie? Female readers know they would never behave as Millie did; perhaps they aren’t quite as certain how they would react to a man like Arturo. Risa is at once attracted and repulsed by Arturo because she automatically sees him as racially, economically, and culturally inferior, an unsuitable candidate from beyond her middle-class, white comfort zone. Once she becomes clouded by sexual desire, she can no longer make reasoned assessments about his character as a man. But ironically, her very desire is borne from the forbidden fruit of dissimilarity.

During my decades-long journey of recovery from “Millie’s” early misadventures, I’ve traversed the equally tricky pathway from lower middle class to comfortably upper middle (okay, upper mid-middle, to be more precise). So I feel qualified to make this stark observation: Say what you will about the “huddled masses,” but they sure speak more candidly (albeit more crudely) about sex, race and money than those aiming for “polite society.” For reasons I cannot quite explain, I feel compelled to tackle these oft-avoided subjects through my fictional characters. If this makes them (and me) a tad less likeable, this is an unfortunate byproduct of being honest.

So I am now going to state the obvious: Racial, class and cultural intolerance is alive and well in America today. Hence, tragedies like Trayvon Martin (only the latest in a long line of similar calamities for which our country is famous) remain a sad fact of life. I daresay that until white America stops seeing everyone else through preconceived lenses of color, class and culture, we will continue projecting subconscious fears and flawed stereotypes onto anyone who looks or sounds different. And those fears are what stubbornly drive our most intimate, personal decisions about who is or isn’t worthy of room in our coveted, gated communities—or a fair shot at our hearts.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: Authors (at least up-and-coming ones like myself) chase reviews like servicemen’s wives and girlfriends yearned for letters from their loved ones during World War II. We crave your feedback; it tells us our precious darlings are still alive somewhere, and haven’t been gunned down in a hailstorm of public indifference. Yes, an author’s biggest challenge is launching her book across enemy lines—that is, sending it off to do battle on the bloody soils of public opinion.

That said, here's another dirty little secret: For most aspiring authors, nearly all the reviews you see online have been proffered by friends and acquaintances, or exchanged with other writers in a nasty, tit-for-tat swapping of POW's. I know I'll probably get slammed for admitting this, but I'm guessing you all suspected it anyhow. According to Napolean Bonaparte, "A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon." In the literary context, this means that new writers will sell our souls for a five-star review. 

And speaking of stars, we all know how stupid they are. Bad enough a friend asked you to write a favorable review; God help you if you don’t give the book five stars. To us writers, anything less looks and feels like a slap in the face. But face it, five stars should be reserved for classics like Crime and Punishment, or only the most highly-crafted and sophisticated of modern works (think Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex). If possible, try not to be bullied into giving away more than your conscience dictates. Writers are grown-ups (or should at least pretend to be). Having enlisted in this voluntary army, we should expect a little schrapnel every now and then.

If you’re having trouble crafting your review, simply say what it is about the book you liked or didn’t like. It doesn’t have to be fancy or perfect; the best reviews contain honest, unselfconscious appraisals. Don’t recount the entire story for the fiftieth time. And don’t give away spoilers. Readers hate that (although personally, I am sufficiently senile that I don’t mind.) Pretend you’re writing an email to a friend. I have found that emails from readers make the best reviews! (But for heaven’s sake, don’t let on if you know the writer! Any hint that you and the author are acquainted renders the review meaningless, however laudatory it might otherwise be.)

If a book moved you, consider that a gift. So do like your mama taught you and send a thank you note in the form of a positive review. We cherish them no less than a chest full of old love letters. Public opinion really does count—so let your voice be heard. And for goodness’ sake, write that review if you said you would! I know you are busy—we all are. But in the time it took you to brag about your kid on Facebook this morning, you could have penned three or four lines about a book you liked, and made that author’s day.

I am depressed—and frightened. I am on Page 102 of Lisa Genova’s Still Alice, and I’m not sure I want to go on. Alice is about to tell her grown children about her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. For the first 101 pages I’ve been asking myself, “Could I have early onset Alzheimer’s?” I forget common words (or the wrong one slips out of my mouth) all the time. I can’t count how many times I have been unable to place a familiar face (usually a neighbor’s) in an unfamiliar setting (like the supermarket), or how many times I have forgotten the names of books, movies and people. I’ve even gotten lost and disoriented a few times while out on my runs. (Okay, in fairness, that’s only happened when I’ve tried a new route, and always in the heart of Piedmont. Which, being a private enclave of “one-percenters,” is a hazy tangle of Bizarro-world roadways designed to confuse interlopers like myself.) 

But back to my original point: Should I stop reading? Fiction is supposed to be enjoyable, right? It’s not supposed to be unnerving. If a book is dampening my spirits, should I force myself go on? Part of me truly doesn’t want to, but another part feels obligated to stick it out until the bitter end. If an author’s words can derail me to such an extent—if I find a fictitious character so compelling that she forces me to contemplate demons I’d rather not face, then Genova must possess that elusive, raw talent I look for in a writer. Don’t I owe it to her, then, to hear her out? 

I guess the answer depends on what we hope to gain from our reading experience. If all we want is entertainment, then by all means, we should abandon ship when the waters get rough. But if we want a moving experience (or, heaven forbid, an enlightening one), then we must stay the course! A few people have told me they had to stop reading my first novel, Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, because it is too personal, too raw, and at times too repulsive. Then again, I’ve had others tell me that these very qualities are what makes it a page-turner.

It’s rare for me to give up on a book once I’ve started. But when I have, it was always because the author did not captivate me enough to retain my interest. I cannot punish this author for being sufficiently talented to draw me into her emotional grip, even if she is messing with my mind like a rapacious cat clawing at a captive mouse. So, I guess I will finish Lisa Genova’s book. And yes, it will cause me no small amount of fear, worry, and distress. Will I escape this unsettling experience unscathed? I seriously doubt it. Will I be richer and wiser for having endured it? I certainly hope so.

Okay, technically I was 47 when I began writing Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, one year after the story idea smacked me in the face, unwittingly, in the form of learning about my deceased half-brother and the Secret Life of Daddy. But I will be turning 50 in less than two weeks, so I think this warrants a pause, a breath, and a few sage words.

To be quite honest, as recently as several months ago, the prospect of turning 50 was dispiriting to me. It felt as if my life, for all intents and purposes, was over (or at least nearing its inevitable end). What was there to look forward to, really, besides a gradual-but-inevitable loss of looks, vigor, clients, friends? I felt as though I was entering the beginning-of-the-end phase of my life, that there was no avoiding becoming one of society’s “leftovers”—a pitiful scrap of humanity who’d lost all her relevance to unripe youngsters.

But then it hit me: Relevance is a choice. Happiness is a choice. We may not have ultimate control over whether we get to keep our health, our friends, or even our income as we grow older. But we do decide whether to retreat to the perimeter of the dance floor to make room for those more dynamic than ourselves, or stay out there, sweating, no matter how foolish we may appear to some. 

The beauty of turning 50 is that we gain the freedom to be ourselves, speak our minds, and dance to our own unique beat. But we elders must do this not just from a place of wisdom, but from a psychic space of acceptance and satisfaction with all that has preceded our monumental milestone. Otherwise, we become whining curmudgeons whom people may humor, but take no pleasure in being around.

Publishing my first novel at age 49 was not only liberating, but life-affirming. Who knows? Perhaps in 50 more years, I’ll be an acclaimed best-selling author with half-as-many novels under her belt.  

A few years ago, before I’d completed my first novel, Later With Myself, I was fortunate enough to have coffee with a traditionally-published novelist. A real, honest-to-goodness author who’d managed to land an agent through a Connection (see “The Elusive Elements of Success,” below) via her writers’ group. These were the first words out of her mouth—even before “Double decaf latte, please”: “You should know, I have a personal policy never to review aspiring writers’ manuscripts.”

Excuse me? Had I even asked her to review my manuscript? Would it be so terrible if I did?  

Boy, was I naïve. Having since fielded several requests to critique (and sometimes review) other people’s work, I now understand why this woman was so prickly about being asked to opine on an amateur’s efforts. At the time, I did not appreciate the surprisingly sensitive nature of this undertaking. Unless you genuinely love someone else’s writing (and face it, among wannabes, what’s the likelihood of that?), you’ll find yourself in the unenviable position of having to put the best possible “spin” on your opinions, while simultaneously trying to preserve a modicum of personal integrity. But just as insincere outpourings of flattery do nothing to help an aspiring writer (and can even hurt, allowing him or her to put forth product that’s not quite ready for prime time), hard truths can cost us friendships.

I’ve said before that we writers are completely delusional. Whereas we ingest praise like a coke addict snorts lines, it’s a bit harder to accept a candid, less-than-glowing assessment of our material, no matter how meticulous the delivery. Why is that? Much so-called “constructive criticism” is altogether arbitrary—nothing more than another person’s unqualified opinion. So why does it hurt so much whenever someone doesn’t love our work? Are we really that needy and desperate for approval?

In a future blog, I will talk trash about reader reviews, those pointless-but-oh-so-coveted badges of popularity that often reveal absolutely nothing about the quality of a writer’s output (and oh-so-much about how many loyal friends he or she has). But for now, if anyone asks you to critique their manuscript, you might take a tip from that author I met and decline graciously.

My very talented (if not world renowned) musician sister-in-law, Shelley Doty, said something interesting to me the other day. According to her, anyone who achieves success in the arts, whether it be music, writing, acting or anything else, possesses four characteristics in some (not necessarily equal) measure: Talent, discipline, luck, and connections.

I’ve given this a lot of thought in relation to my own fledgling-yet-burgeoning writing career. Have I got talent? Naturally I’d like to think so, but every writer thinks (many with no small degree of self-delusion) that he or she is the greatest novelist since Tolstoy. And while my books have garnered their share of “gushing” from readers, they have not as yet “gone viral.” This makes me wonder if I truly have what it takes to be a best-selling author, or whether the problem lies in one of the other three requisites.

Which brings me to discipline. I am nothing if not disciplined. I left home at 17 and put myself through college and law school. I lost 40 pounds and maintained that weight loss for five years by sheer force of will: I plan low-fat meals in advance, log my daily food intake on a computer program, and run 4-1/2 miles five mornings a week (when not lifting weights or doing yoga). I wake up at 3:00 a.m. each day to work on my latest novel (currently, The Floater), and to write these silly blogs. How much more disciplined can one be? No, lack of discipline has never been my issue.

Is luck my problem? Now, luck is a fickle and unpredictable ally. You can’t really count on Lady Luck showing up when you need her. As far as I can tell, the harder you work, the luckier you become. I’ve never been one to witness miracles—what I do perceive in my own life is the  steady, prodding hand of  a higher power waking me up and pushing me out the door each morning with a firm kick in the behind. And, like a watchful, pain-in-the butt parent, my higher power gives me plenty of chores to do. Just as I wasn’t lucky enough to be born wealthy or privileged (to wit: Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz), the Universe only seems to reward my efforts after years of exacting dues. So here I am, standing in the longest, most slow-moving line of my life (I do have a knack for picking the worst one!), clutching my crumpled bills and waiting my turn to pay them.

So that just leaves connections, and simply stated, I have none. I don’t know a soul in the publishing business (nor, it seems, does anyone I know). You, my friends, are my budding “connections.” You’re the ones who will either launch my writing career through slow-but-steady word of mouth, or you’ll leave me standing in line when the cashier closes her register. Much as I would love to pick up the phone, call Aunt Sarah, and ask her to introduce me to her agent-friend (who lunches with a top exec at Random House),  I have to be satisfied calling in favors from you.

If you’ve enjoy my blogs, please give them a “like,” post a comment, or, better yet, buy a book! An Unexpected Exile is now available in paperback and will be out on Kindle any day. Both of my novels are available on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. Make no mistake about it, whenever someone buys one of my books, my heart does three back flips. Not because of the money (which is negligible), but because it tells me you’re out there in that vast forest of “public opinion,” listening to  my grunts as I hack away at the tallest, most stubborn of trees (I’ve got a knack for picking the worst of those, too!) one exhausting blow at a time.  When it finally cracks and falls—when I yell “Tiiiiiimber!” at the top of my lungs, will a crowd gather to cheer me on, even as they jump out of the way? Or will that tree crash in a silent wood without making a sound?