thank you, john d'agata.

I was more or less born a reader, if one can say such a thing. What I mean is that, from the moment I learned to read, I did it voraciously. I read quickly and eagerly. I always loved language. I was not likewise born a writer. I mean, I understood grammar. I could write clear sentences and well-organized paragraphs. But the idea of writing creatively never crossed my mind.

My final year of college, I decided to turn my English minor into a major and, subsequently, I crammed a lot of credits into two semesters. I had more or less covered the literature courses I needed, but not the writing. So I took what was my first real creative writing class. I'm going to risk one great big cliche by saying: it changed my life. I read Brenda Miller's A Braided Heart in the anthology Writing Creative Nonfiction. I heard the term "lyric essay" and I instantly fell in love. I can't tell you why exactly, but it made my heart pound. So, in a wave of impulse, instead of using my senior thesis to analyze a literary work, I used it to study the lyric essay and create my own.

I'm having all this nostalgic reflection because, during this past week, John D'Agata has ignited some controversy surrounding his forthcoming book, The Lifespan of a Fact. Those many years ago when I began to explore creative writing, John D'Agata was something of an idol to me. Not because I knew him, or really anything about him. I had his collection, The Next American Essay, which I thought was very cool. And I had the original issue of the Seneca Review that began to advertise and publish what was called the lyric essay.

I really wasn't involved in writing or literary communities. I was at a very small, somewhat isolated college. The lyric essay was my creative awakening. Something about this guy and the stuff he said about essays lit me on fire.

So I've been following the various responses and responses-to-responses on D'Agata's new book. I won't rehash the whole debate here, but if you'd like, you can catch yourself up:

• You can start by reading the excerpts published in Harper's Magazine
• What happened in Vegas
• And then you can read Laura Miller's response at Salon
• In defense of fact checking
• Then you can read some responses from Brevity
• How Negotiable is a Fact in Nonfiction and In Fairness to John D'Agata
• Finally, check out Hannah Goldfield's response in The New Yorker
• The Art of Fact-Checking
• And there are many other responses out there that you'll surely find if you start looking.

Goldfield more or less hits on what the general reaction and outcry has been:

"D’Agata, in his attempt to “reconstruct details in a way that makes them feel significant,” in the name of “art” and “a good experience,” is neither going beyond the evidence, nor experimenting with it stylistically; he’s simply ignoring it, and abusing the reader by doing so."

You have to admit, the whole thing is fascinating. D'Agata is certainly succeeding at making us uncomfortable.

I think it is art’s job to trick us. I think it is art’s job to lure us into terrain that is going to confuse us perhaps make us feel uncomfortable and perhaps open up to us possibilities in the world that we hadn’t earlier considered.

I obviously haven't read the book, only those selected excerpts in Harper's. I'll grant that D'Agata does have a way of sounding, oh what's the word...pretentious? Yes, pretentious. The artist taking liberties for the sake of art always sounds a bit pretentious. And we certainly can never forget that art is nothing without an audience.

The actual facts exist and they hold an intrinsic value. Right? There's no denying they do. Right? The reader is expecting something from the author. What are they expecting? Truth. The people who are represented deserve the respect of an honest portrayal. Of course they do. And so on.

Listen, just think about truth as you know it. Sit down and let it get all clammy and hot inside your head as you try to figure it out. Truth. Facts. Honesty. Reality. Everyone is in a big fit to proclaim the objectivity of these, but how objective are you and I? And do we really expect to answer such a question of truth in so simple a way?

At the root of all this obligation to the audience and to the truth lies our fear and disdain for deception. The critics of D'Agata aren't really saying that he's misrepresenting the truth - they're saying that he is deceiving his audience. The reader is expecting truth and he isn't giving it to them.

So that deception feels bad and wrong because...?
And truth is really good because...?
And reality is important because...?
And it's essential for us to distinguish fiction from nonfiction because...?
And we're all so angry and worked up because...?

I'm not saying truth doesn't matter, nor am I saying the fiction/nonfiction distinction is irrelevant. All I'm saying is this big old hoopla is making me ask why things are the way they are. Frankly, you aren't much of a thinker if you're never asking those questions. And art surely has a way of making us ask why.

In whatever small way, I'm rooting for D'Agata. He's making everyone turn on their brains and think a bit harder about art and truth and where/how the two meet. But more than that, he's getting everybody, and I mean everybody, riled up. I kind of like it. Maybe that's not his intention at all. Maybe, at the end of the day, he really does just have a very high opinion of himself and his art. Oh well.

I still want to say: Thanks, John D'Agata. I learned to love the essay because of you. And I'm questioning the system and the very philosophy that underlies it...because of you. Whether you're right or wrong, I appreciate that.