What I love about fiction is the opportunity it gives authors to play with narrative voice, persona and identity. The book I’m reading now, The Gustav Sonata by Rose Tremain, is a straightforward third person narrative. It tells the story from the perspective of an observant, sensitive and confused child but allows the reader a wider understanding than he has of the motives and prejudices of the characters around him. Whereas Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, which I read a few years ago, is one of those novels in which you don’t know who to trust. This makes it an addictive, compulsive read, forcing you to guess the true nature of the two main characters. They alternate as the narrators and they are opaque. The author withholds facts and complexities about them, merely drip-feeding information.
It made me question the possibility of ever really knowing or understanding a person intimately. Including myself. People are so good at hiding things about themselves, faking certain characteristics to fit a certain type they think is popular, good, socially acceptable or attractive. And sometimes there are no hidden depths, or we fool ourselves we are something we are not.
Around the time I read Gone Girl I also came across a review in the Guardian about a book on mental health and the old nature/nurture chestnut (http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/jun/19/semantic-polarities-psychopathologies-family-review). It apparently advocates not laying blame for mental illness or instability on any one particular relationship or incident we have experienced, as we are just an intricate web of responses to every significant person or event in our lives. Impossible to untangle and resolve. Or prevent the fucked-up-ness from kicking in, when something so irrevocable as, for example, a dominant personality in a sibling or parent affects us, but in weird and unpredictable ways depending on our own natural personality type.
I can relate to that. I aspire to being like my sensible, hard-working, civically responsible, morally upright mother. But I’m more like my chaotic, creative, philosophical and morally questioning father. Though more socially outgoing than both my parents, I have struggled to ‘find myself’ and find it very difficult to make decisions.
Maybe I’m just fickle. I’m easily influenced by charismatic people who have been significant in my life. My head listens to the sensible advice and wisdom of my mother; my heart (and genetic inheritance) leads me along the higgledy-piggledy, experimental path of my dad, who is forever dabbling in different ideas and projects. Most of these are interesting and fun so it’s not all doom and gloom. It means I’ve done a lot of things, from teaching to travel to community development to media to training in journalism to working for children’s charities to being on the periphery of the arty, creative, cultural sector (but only to help other people be arty, creative and cultural).
I am constantly wondering if there is another life journey, an incredible creative path, available to me. But this remains elusive. It would be much more convenient if I could just be satisfied with what I’m currently doing. Can I change or am I genetically fixed?
I continue to question my own identity and ponder on my career path. But as I progress through middle age I am trying to accept my capriciousness and settle into a life in which relationships, art, culture and literature bring pleasure and the digital age keeps me guessing as to what innovation will surprise us next (much as Gone Girl kept me guessing about its protagonists).
Whilst I’ve often turned to others to reflect back to me who I am, I think I have to take responsibility for deciding that for myself. I think what matters is that I am comfortable in my own skin whilst I explore who I am, perhaps never experiencing enlightenment.
And I think it’s important, the next time I share an idea or dream that I have of my future, some vision of who I want to be and what I want to do, that I am not cowed by the response I get from those who I share these ideas with.
It’s up to me to decide what I want and who I want to be and I have the right to change my mind as I go along. I’d like to be braver about taking steps into the unknown, towards being the person I imagine I could be.
I’m not sure I will ever be clear and certain about who I am. But then, who is? Some people seem to live and breathe their identity without much self-doubt but if we don’t question, reflect or challenge ourselves we are not open to learning and new ideas.
I love the way that fiction is able to recreate that shifting sense of self, the lack of solid evidence about anyone else’s true thoughts and identity. But what fiction can do that real life often can’t, is reveal the true identities of those who seem most trustworthy and reliable, with core principles, moral values and beliefs. What if we could peel off the masks of those around us and see the intricate workings of their deepest, inner thoughts?
I believe 100% that I have only one life. I’m probably more than half way through it so I’m going to embrace this uncertainty about myself and others and enjoy the ride – what’s left of it.