Each day, I encounter individuals who openly share their personal experiences with me, a phenomenon I attribute to the act of reading. In a recent article, a former sex addict reflects on her attraction to BDSM, revealing that “when a partner inflicted pain, I felt acknowledged,” and discusses her journey to overcome this addiction. On Substack, an actress conveys her sorrow following a miscarriage, stating, “After losing the baby, I was convinced my daughter was waiting for me backstage, and I would move aside the costumes, hoping to find her.” Additionally, there are numerous memoirs detailing personal stories of trauma, dislocation, and loss. This trend is not limited to women; as Martin Amis notes in his memoir, Experience, “We are all either writing or talking about it: the memoir, the apology, the résumé, the heartfelt expression.”
However, recent memoirs have taken a bold turn. Once considered a genre dominated by elderly, self-satisfied figures—politicians, military leaders, and celebrities reflecting on their illustrious careers—it has now become accessible to anyone with a narrative to share. American journalist Lorraine Adams has dubbed these “nobody memoirs.” The hallmark of this new wave is honesty, regardless of the potential fallout. As Maggie Nelson states in her work, The Argonauts, “Many writers I know harbor persistent fears about the terrible repercussions of expressing themselves authentically.” Nevertheless, she embraces this challenge, directing her book to her fluidly gendered partner Harry, who reacts with anger upon reading a draft while she examines themes of identity, motherhood, and sexuality.
The opening lines of The Argonauts present a striking image: “The words I love you spill from my lips during our first encounter, my face pressed against the concrete floor.” Such candidness would have been unimaginable for authors three decades ago, nor would they have been permitted to be so explicitly raw at the outset of their narratives. I recall the discomfort I experienced in the 1990s after a reviewer highlighted a personal passage from my father’s memoir, where I described a moment of self-exploration during his final days. I questioned why I chose to reveal that detail and worried about my colleagues’ perceptions. Today, I would not feel the same level of embarrassment.
Shock often plays a crucial role in memoir writing, with some truths being inherently startling. In his autobiography, A Clip of Steel, Thomas Blackburn recounts receiving a device from his father at boarding school intended to prevent involuntary ejaculation: “The device featured a thin steel clip with a serrated inner edge… if an erection occurred, the expanding penis pressed against the sharp teeth.” This level of frankness is not exclusive to contemporary memoirs; Blackburn’s book was published over fifty years ago, as were JR Ackerley’s candid memoirs My Dog Tulip and My Father and Myself, which openly discuss his homosexuality and his father’s hidden second family, alongside vivid descriptions of his affection for his dog.
In the realm of literature, this style was once termed confessionalism; nowadays, it is often criticized as oversharing. Ideally, such revelations foster a sense of connection: “Wow, here’s someone who has experienced what I have.” Yet, they can also provoke resistance, eliciting responses like, “That’s too much information; I don’t want to know.” Whether it manifests as exaggerated expressions of sadness on social media, self-indulgent glorification on platforms like Instagram, or shocking revelations in memoirs, some readers may feel annoyed or offended. When I authored a book about the tragic murder of James Bulger by two ten-year-olds, I received mixed reviews—some appreciated my personal insights, while others disapproved of my inclusion of my own children in the discussion about accountability.
Writers are not obligated to divulge every detail of their lives. They are not victims on a talk show, manipulated by hosts like Jerry Springer or Jeremy Kyle; instead, they write on their own terms, controlling what is published. As Margo Jefferson articulates in her memoir Negroland, “It is too easy to recount unhappy memories when writing about oneself. You revel in your innocence, glorify your grief, and present your anger in the most flattering light. I want to avoid that kind of self-indulgence.”
Moreover, the use of first-person narration is not a requirement in memoir writing. In Bone Black, bell hooks employs “she” and “we” alongside “I.” As one of six siblings, she includes chapters narrated in a collective voice. During pivotal emotional moments, whether discussing personal experiences or facing physical abuse, she portrays herself distantly, almost as an observer of her past self. Similarly, Salman Rushdie refers to himself in the third person in his memoir Joseph Anton, reflecting his strange transformation into a figure of religious animosity that feels foreign to him; JM Coetzee employs a similar technique in his childhood memoirs. The use of “you” can also draw the reader in, suggesting that the author’s experiences could resonate with anyone.
This level of discretion is commendable if it does not equate to evasion. There is little value in sharing a personal narrative if essential truths are withheld. I encourage students of life writing, often apprehensive about how their narratives will be received by friends or family, to confront their fears. It is their story to tell, and if others take issue, they should feel free to share their own perspectives.
However, achieving honesty in writing requires skill; what works as a casual anecdote may not translate effectively to the written page.
