What Memoirs Know

“Madness: A Bipolar Life”: Buddha did not write this book. Nor did your stereotypical soccer mom who wants desperately to tell someone how yoga has changed her life. So if a universal fixture doesn’t claim ownership to the latest memoir that pours—as they do, pour—off the shelf, then why lend an ear? Life is short, after all. There are places to go, people to see, literary fiction to read.

Creative nonfiction is a finicky genre that demands much from its creator. To write a memoir is to adopt a child. I don’t care if you’re tired; feed me. At age 10: I don’t know how to cook. Who is older than you, and smarter, and possibly a good deal crazier: Then I’ll throw beer cans at your head until you learn. This may or may not be an exaggerated description of Marya Hornbacher’s relationship with “Madness.”

It is a story of survival; of the insatiable highs-and demoniacal lows- that accompany the bipolar life: as seen through the tired eyes of its victim. Like a needy child, the book refuses to be set down. Haunting scenes ache toward completion and seem to describe themselves, awakening the impression that Hornbacher was just as possessed by the book as her readers—as she wrote it.

“Madness” lures its prey into surreal worlds in which we see all, are scared shitless, but must know more. And the honesty maintained throughout every chapter only fosters shameless curiosity.

But does a fascinating story necessarily imply good writing? If so, a cheap dream sequence-or bad trip-would do just as well. Neither of which are too far a cry from the bizarre mental scenery in Hornbacher’s book. Here lies the obstacle “Madness” faces in the world of literary reviews.

Due to the recent “memoir trend,” a.k.a. surplus of pseudo-myths perceived as nauseatingly confessional, self-indulgent, and barely stitched together by weak writing, some critics respond with automatic cynicism toward any work that alludes to “the extraordinary.” Memoirs are to be judged harshly by critics-under the preexisting condition that the memoir is not a real form of literature. (!)

It’s a catch 22 in the worst sense of the cliché: appease the writing buffs, stick to novels, and be harassed to no end by the story that begs to be written….or appease the story, write the damn thing, and be harassed to no end by the writing buffs. It seems as if the only loophole in this static loop of failure is to turn in your notepad and have real kids. At least they’ll leave you alone- so long as you drive them to soccer practice.

For Hornbacher’s book to be true to fact, shock is inevitable. Yet, how can she redeem describing what is, when “what is” is shocking? The writing must stand, apart from phenomena, on its own.

And even that isn’t usually enough. Thanks to the onslaught of low-quality or mediocre work cloaked in sensational facades, the entire genre has become disillusioned.

Now, to write a piece that hoists itself above the craft’s muddied stereotype becomes a daunting task, a task which “Madness” rises to, through careful diction, choice of details, and the utilization of metaphor as a segue for blatant description.

Having read Hornbacher’s first publication, ‘Wasted, A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia,” where the latter took precedence, one is startled to find sweeping changes in this later work. The narrator’s voice is recognizable by its intensity alone. The speaker reveals herself, but her presence is rationed.

In certain passages Hornbacher performs like a phantom limb: we “feel” her weight in shadowy images, only to realize her “form” has ducked silently out from under them. Without clear instruction, we create an experience in her absence- and believe it to be real. The art of illusion might be key to a memoir’s success. Once the author “disappears” the audience can engage the story on a personal level, regardless of their familiarity with the subject matter.

Executed effectively, the memoir becomes a uniquely powerful medium: for both emotional correspondence and creative aesthetic. To toss out an individual work on the basis of stigma, like the baby with the bathwater—or the beer cans—is to overlook the rare occasion of literary brilliance. The method behind the madness? It’s Hornbacher’s dissonant voice: eloquently crafted, laced with poetry, and just subtle enough- to make us believe we stumbled, on our own, into understanding.