I just finished reading Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy. In the Afterward, fellow author Anne Patchett tells of Grealy’s death and her feelings towards her book, which was an autobiography of her life in relation to her cancer and its aftermath.

Patchett tells of a book signing the two did together in which Grealy answered the questions of the audience. Apparently, many of the people that came to the signing–thus, those that got the most out of it or enough to feel inclined to come–had cancer, were cancer survivors, or knew someone who had cancer. They felt a connection with Grealy for what she went through and what they went through and, by telling her their stories, were most likely attempting to explain this. But, as Patchett describes, this is not what Grealy wanted.

One audience member asked her how she remembered everything in such detail. I myself wondered the same as I was reading; I’m also writing an autobiography and details aren’t always easy to come by. Grealy replied that she hadn’t remembered it, she wrote it. Patchett elaborated by explaining that Grealy did not want her readers to relate or to view the book by what happened to her. Rather, she wanted it to be literary. She wanted readers to view it as a work of art rather than a story.

Since I am in the process of writing my story, I got to thinking about this. It all comes down to motive: is the author writing for themselves or the reader?

I have read a few books on writing and one of the authors (I honestly do not remember which) created a differentiation that I have stuck with. There are those that write books and those that write stories, those that write to publish and those that write because they love it.

I am writing my story because I want to chronicle what happened. So that I can remember, so that I can share with those I love my story, and so that I can heal. It is one of the few places that I can truly express myself and get out what happened. “They” say that you have to get it out to heal, but I tend to hold back details and occurences and feelings that might bother some. My story is my way to get it out.

I’m not writing it to be literary and I’m not writing it to publish. Sure, if those two end up happening, I won’t stop them. They would be interesting side-effects. But they aren’t my purpose. That’s not what writing is about.

When a person reads something, whether story or book, they try to relate. As an Education major, we learn that this is human nature and that it should be played into for student connection. In my Interpretation of Fiction class, we also learned this. A reader gets out of a story what they want to. They reach into what they know and fill in the holes. In everything I have learned and read, this is the goal: for the reader to be able to add to it with their experiences and get something back. To relate.

So, that is what I do not understand with the Afterward statement. To not want the reader to do this is against human nature. One must accept that, especially at a book signing where the average visitor is going to be an average citizen and not a scholar. That is not to say that one cannot wish for their reader to understand underlying literary merit; they are not mutually exclusive. But one must know that they cannot exclude the former and should not resent the reader for doing what comes naturally.

And, believing as I do that they are not mutually exclusive, I began to ponder my own story. Not because I particularly care if it has literary merit; as stated before, I am not writing it for anyone but myself and my loved ones, and to have literary merit a story must have some sort of value to a reader and/or hold some universal truth.

So, I looked back on that Interpretation of Fiction class. Everything read was literary and had literary merit. So, what did we look for? Theme (check; overcoming loss and growing despite it), universal truth (check; death, depression, love), hidden meaning (unsure; perhaps).

But, going back to the original point, I’m unsure of what to think of Grealy now. Sure, she struggled through so much and, sure, I can relate to her in many ways but she didn’t want the readers to think of that. But, after reading the book, what I got out of it was her story. Sure, she writes elegant prose but I did not sit down to purposely read elegant prose. I sat down to read her story. And, after reading the Afterward, I feel faintly rejected as it seems she looked down on readers that focused on that very purpose.