The Good Book

Finally, I’ve discovered Shannon Olson, local author of the novel/memoirs Welcome to My Planet and Children of God Go Bowling, and I’m in love. I am in love because she’s hilarious, because meeting her and hearing her read her work inspired me to write about ugly, touchy subjects in my last column (which always scares me, but a lot of you said you liked it), and finally, because she said I have nice hair, which made me happy at the end of a long, arduous day. And I’m in love with Shannon for the same reason I love a memoir in general, and for the same reason others hate them: It’s personal.

What I’m still reveling in after reading Shannon’s books—which I did over a weekend—is the delicious, guilty pleasure of eating up so many private details about another real woman my own age. I love that she picks at her toes and that her ex-boyfriend would catch her in the act, surprising her with the greeting, “Hey, little picker!” I love her for sharing this unflattering detail. This stuff is rare in everyday life, where we take care to guard the fragility of the truths and lies within ourselves, and with those we love.

I recently had a frightening beauty emergency that Shannon could relate to. The only person who knew (until now) is my sister, because she’s the one who got so excited about waxing products. I’ve only ever waxed my legs, and then only infrequently, so I’m not sure what (other than big sister’s voice in my head) possessed me to slap leg wax on my face to see how smooth it would make my skin. To make matters worse, I attempted to treat the stunningly immediate and painful breakout with the same brand of zit-zapper I used at thirteen. Apparently my adult skin had grown a little more sensitive, judging by the intense chemical burn I inflicted on myself.

I could go on, but the extent of my vanity is already embarrassing enough. People I know looked at me oddly but apparently didn’t know what to say, so I let them wonder. By the time I called my sister, we both laughed until we cried, which is what somebody like Shannon does for me in the dark of night. It’s comforting to know that other people have outrageous experiences, however inane they may be.

Do you remember Harriet the Spy, the eponymous girl detective who spied on her neighbors not to solve crimes, but out of sheer curiosity? She had a roster of homes whose windows she peered into, taking notes on the inhabitants’ activities; at one home she even hid in a household dumbwaiter on a regular basis. Harriet was my girlhood hero. I tried to emulate her for a while, creating a “route” of my own and talking my friend into being my partner, until her father warned us that we could get arrested for being peeping Toms. I retired my route, but never really stopped watching other people.

Years ago, a friend told me about being pregnant and waking up ravenous in the predawn hours one night. The cupboards were bare and she woke her husband to ask him to run out and get her an egg sandwich. He refused, and she hit him with a lint brush. She was ashamed, of course, but still she laughed in delayed rage and hysteria as she told the story. Another acquaintance announced once at a New Year’s party that her husband’s midnight kiss had been accompanied with the plea that they have sex more than twelve times in the coming year. I collect these small confessions like unusual bits of sea debris and store them away to examine, sometimes decades later, in the search for what is normal. These oddities are the great treasures of human connection, and it’s storytellers like Olson who bring them to light.

Books give us a singular brand of unobstructed access to the inner dialogue of one or more characters. They offer carte blanche entrée to somebody else’s inner life. Films can’t offer this, at least not nearly to the same degree. Cheesy devices such as voice-overs can’t plumb the depths of the human psyche the way countless pages of well-crafted rumination and narration can (and if a movie tried, we probably wouldn’t put up with it very long).

But writers like Anne Lamott, David Sedaris, and our own Shannon Olson, not to mention serious, breathtaking talents like Dorothy Allison, and tons of others I don’t have time to read—these writers attack topics as diverse as elastic-waisted pants, colic, and childhood sexual abuse, opening the doors wide to anyone who dares to walk in and pull up a chair. They’re the next best thing to Harriet’s route, and perfectly legal. You’ve gotta love ’em.