The Dirty Little Secret of Memoir Writing

Two-and-a-half years ago, an article about my family appeared in The Times’ Life & Style section. “My Three Dads” was an emotional essay I had written after my mother’s death, acknowledging her impact on me and explaining how--in spite of a life in which few of her dreams came true--it was she, rather than credit-grabbing father figures, who shaped me.

When I arrived at work on publication day, my voice mail was overloaded with messages, most of them congratulations from friends. A few of the communiques were from agents and production companies. But none from my family.

Within a week I had taken meetings with agents from CAA, ICM, William Morris--each blubbering about their vision for a film of “My Three Dads.”

“ ‘This Boy’s Life,’ but not as dark.”

“ ‘Unstrung Heroes,’ only funnier.”

“ ‘Flirting With Disaster,’ but with more tears.”

I chose the agency that dangled the memoir carrot before me--one with an agent who said the nicest things about my writing, who announced, with as much conviction as is possible in Hollywoodese: “I am totally passionate about this project.” And I totally fell for it. My screenwriter friend Paul told me, “Agents lie for a living,” but I ignored him, believing these people genuinely cared about me, not just a potentially lucrative product. I went to New York to meet with representatives of the literary arm of my agency and with prospective publishers, who told me how great I was.

My head was spinning; I was in the process of being plucked from obscurity, earmarked for greatness, a dream all journalists have but dare not speak of. I had my signature piece. My calling card. I was the “My Three Dads” guy.

I’d worked as an editor for seven years, and what they say about editors is true: We all want to be writers. So I was about to become a writer, about to write the story of my life, because, well, the themes were so universal, the characters so vivid. Everyone said so. Even Sally Field, who expressed interest in playing my mom.

One problem: These weren’t characters, they were real people. Sure, they were sliced and diced and chopped and pureed over the course of several edits, abridged to accommodate the almighty 1,500-word limit of the essay. Yes, I gave my pops easily digestible titles: Biodad, Adoptodad and Fauxdad. But no one asked them whether they wanted their lives, or my perspective of their lives, in book or movie form.

That’s the dirty little secret of memoir writing--how many nuclear bombs must you lob at your family to ensure a life so compelling that strangers will pay to read all about it?

Fortunately, Biodad took it well: “You nailed it, man. I wasn’t around. I was young and dumb.” Since we essentially hadn’t had a relationship until after my mother’s death, the story wasn’t a revelation, but actually a starting-off point. My dislike for Fauxdad, who was married to my mother when she died, was such that I didn’t even bother to call him about the story. I warned Adoptodad, husband No. 2, but he never saw it coming. He, most of all, had attempted to fulfill the father’s role while I was growing up; he had done the best he could, and we maintained a relationship after he and my mother divorced. But we had always avoided discussing how we felt about each other (discounting the awkward “love yous” tacked onto the end of phone conversations, the kind where you feel like a jerk if you don’t parrot the sentiment).

Adoptodad obsessed over the piece, and in his anger recited specific language. “Deadbeat” drove him over the edge. It was a word that, admittedly, I played fast and loose with. I liked the way the word sounded and didn’t give meaning a second thought. Adoptodad took it literally. “Those other two guys were the deadbeats,” he said, his voice shrill with rage. “I was there.”

“Why do you get to tell the world about us?” he added. “I don’t get to respond, and that’s not fair.” Of course it’s not fair. But memoir writing is essentially a blood sport--and since I communicate with words for a living, I always win. Which reminds me of a cartoon I taped to my refrigerator: It shows a woman signing copies of her memoir, “My Miserable Life.” Her parents approach the table and say, “If we knew you were going to write about us, we would have been better parents.”

I thought this was very funny.

*

Adoptodad and I tap-danced in slow motion for several delicate months. I made many apologies and clarifications in an attempt to regain his trust, which will probably never happen. The rest of that branch of the family was also feeling burned, angry that I would sell them out. And my Adoptofamily was unnerved, thinking that the essay was potentially just the beginning of public therapy.

As I tried to stop the hemorrhaging, I pecked away at the book proposal that would be my own Miserable Life. Weighing in at 30 pages, it was crammed with every problem, neurosis and addiction I could possibly dredge up. Thinking the world wanted only the worst of times, I recounted the tragedy of my mother’s life in grisly, depressing detail.

The bad news trickled in soon after. Editors who had enthusiastically schmoozed me were now returning poker-faced rejection letters: “too much like being in a session with the author’s shrink.”

I regrouped, scrambling to rekindle the spirit of the original article in a revised proposal. Seventeen pages. Snappy. Makes you laugh. Makes you cry. But no one saw it. Having blown the initial momentum, my agents’ new strategy involved selling the movie first, with a book to follow. (Did someone say agents lie?) I was desperate. How can I help the sale? I asked. Publish more stories about your family, they said.

So I did: I wrote about a biker run with my hard-drinking, Harley-riding Biodad; I wrote about finding my brother, who had been given up for adoption, and going to a Van Halen concert with him. Life was becoming less reality than a literary construct waiting to be documented.

Absolutely nothing was sacred: I pitched a story about dating my wife, from whom I was separated. Nice idea, the magazine said, but we just did sleeping with your ex and it’s too similar. (How about a screenplay about a guy who writes a memoir that gets made into a film and the high jinks that ensue among his real and film families?)

Almost a year had passed since “My Three Dads” appeared, and everyone’s interest was fading, especially mine. My last gasp was a movie treatment I wrote with Paul, also titled “My Three Dads,” a total fiction structured to work as a film. It was about a guy whose three dads move into his house and teach him a lesson about the importance of family. There was no mother in this version.

*

All along, I was carried by the project’s inertia and the riches I expected. I never seriously considered the difficulty of actually writing the book or the closetful of memories I would have to sort through. In retrospect, I never harbored a burning desire to tell the complete story of my family. I was simply pursuing an opportunity. The original “My Three Dads” was written out of love for my mother. And I probably said all I wanted to say in those 1,500 words.

There was also karmic damage to consider. I wasn’t impervious to the pain I caused--merely in serious denial. Besides, my life really hasn’t been that tragic. Unusual, yes. Unconventional and sometimes trying. But I never suffered. I never felt without love.

The one true appeal of the project was exploring my mother’s life through the eyes of those who’d shared their lives with her. I conducted lengthy interviews with family members and began to piece together a woman who, during her lifetime, loved me yet remained a mystery.

I learned about her drives up Pacific Coast Highway with Biodad, listening to the top tunes on KFWB. The Christmas tree lot with Adoptodad on Centinela, which the rains of 1968 washed away. The liberating, pill-popping Valley of the Dolls adventures she shared with her best friend. Through these discussions, I finally got to know my mom.

In the end, I was just another example of Hollywood’s rabid yet fickle hunger for a good story. That’s OK; I still know it’s a good one. But I’m no longer willing to share.