The Problem of Authenticity

As soon as I finished my first novel, I sent it straight to someone who I knew wouldn't lie to me. 

My best friend Hae-won worked as a cognitive science professor at the university near my apartment. I had spent the last two weeks in agony while she read my novel, as she had refused to give any feedback until she had finished. I sat across from her now in her cramped office, waiting until she was done with her phone call. Her makeup and outfit were especially on point today. I looked away and pretended to take interest in the books piled on the shelf behind her. 

“So?” I said, once she had hung up. “What do you think?"

“Jen,” she said, in the tone that usually meant bad news. “I don’t like it.”

I slumped in my chair. My novel was a long, rambling fantasy featuring a fierce woman riding a horse through a kingdom, saving the people from oppression. I didn’t expect anyone to love it, but I had hoped for a better reception than this.

“What did I do wrong?” I asked.

She spoke for a while about the characters and the plotting before delivering the death blow: “The story feels inauthentic. It feels like you’re trying too hard to manipulate me into feeling something, or that you're promoting some kind of agenda.”

And there it was again: the problem of authenticity. The go-to criticism from creative writing teachers and famous authors. A story had to “come from the heart.” It had to "sound like a real voice.” No one could really tell me how exactly I was to supposed to sound like myself. “You’re right,” I said. “Whenever I try to write something, it feels like I’m faking it. Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer.”

“That’s nonsense. No one is destined to be a writer- writers are just people who keep writing.” She stood up and grabbed her purse and papers. "Walk me to my next class?"

 She touched my arm as I passed her on the way out, and I swallowed hard. It was much easier to be friends with her when we had a desk between us. We walked side by side across campus, discussing mundane things - her parents, church gossip, the antics of her dog Nugget.

“You know,” she said, as we neared the lecture hall, “We’re studying Rene Descartes and his contribution to the philosophy of the mind - 'I think, therefore I am.’ There’s a way to capture exactly who you are.”

“What’s that?"

“It’ll be an experiment. There’s a device on campus at the Walton Lab that can transcribe your thoughts into text. Then you can analyze that text and edit it.”

“Wow…"

“It’s open to the public if you fill out an application, but it’s easier if you just take my pass for now. We look similar anyway.” She handed me a key card. 

“Thanks,” I said. She mock-saluted me and entered her classroom. I watched her go with a lump in my throat. The device was a good idea, but I wasn’t keen to find out exactly who I was.

***

The next day, I sat down at my desk to start a short story. I was able to write only one sentence before hearing Hae-won's voice: “It's inauthentic." I deleted the sentence and stared at the blank page for a few hours. This happened every day for the next few days.

“You gave me writer’s block,” I told Hae-won grumpily at church on Sunday morning. We were sitting next to each other on the pews.

"You asked for my opinion, I gave it," she shot back. "You're the only one giving yourself writers block."

"Fine, you’re right,” I said. When she continued to raise her eyebrow at me, I batted my eyelashes at her, “I appreciate you for reviewing my book. I love you, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yes, you will,” she said haughtily, and I laughed. The pastor took the stand, and we both quieted down to listen. Today’s sermon was another speech about the sin of homosexuality. It was Pride month, so the pastors were especially worried about us being persuaded by the homosexual agenda. As he quoted the passages in the Bible that condemned same-sex relationships, I felt Hae-won's shoulder close to mine, her body heat searing me. I casually shifted my position to lean away from her.

The next few days, my writer’s block was worse than ever. It was no use procrastinating any longer. I retrieved Hae-won's pass from the depths of my purse and took the bus to the university campus. Hae-won was teaching, so I wouldn’t have to face her. I checked into the lab and sat in one of the large chairs. A poster next to my station instructed me on how to conduct my session: I would wear the helmet device, the transcription of my thoughts would appear on the laptop screen nearby, and I would end the session by printing out the transcription.

I took a deep breath and put on the helmet.

This is stupid. I am stupid. I thought. The laptop screen started displaying those words. I closed my eyes.

Ooh, that’s cool technology. That is really cool. This is a good idea. Well, what should I think about? Should I think about…no. Not that. No. 

What am I going to have for dinner? I have a few pork chops in the fridge, so I could use that. Who am I going to invite over to keep me company? What about…no. Don’t think about her…

...

It’s warm in this room. Maybe I should take off my jacket.

***

“This is mostly bullshit," Hae-won said, looking down at the printed transcript. After a few days of deliberation, I had finally decided to bring the transcript to her office.

“What? Because my thoughts are so boring?"

“There’s a reason this is boring. You’re sure this is the word-for-word transcript of your thoughts? You didn’t edit anything?”

“No! This is exactly what I was thinking. This just proves I don't have any good ideas."

Hae-won sat back in her chair and stared at me. "I don't believe you."

"Don't believe what?"

“You want so badly to be a writer, but you don’t give yourself the chance to have any ideas. Look how many times you said 'no, don’t think about that.' You’re running away from your feelings, even in your own head. What are you hiding?"

I sat back and recoiled under her stare. “I’m not hiding anything. There are just some things I don’t want to write about."

She looked at me. “Are you okay?”

I bit my lip and didn’t answer.

She looked down at the transcript, so full of my evasions. My fear was written all over the page. All long, I already knew the answer to my problem: I had to be vulnerable. Take emotional risks, even if it meant damaging relationships. This was why I only wrote about fictional characters. But could I write about fictional lives without being honest about my own? 

Hae-won got up suddenly. "Let's go to the lab now. I'll help you."

"Now?” I said, my fear kicking in automatically.

"We’re best friends, Jen. You can always be honest with me." She led the way out the room and I followed. By the time we reached the lab and I settled into the chair, my body was weak with adrenaline. She sat in a chair in front of the laptop, and I put on the helmet, my arms trembling.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked.

I closed my eyes. I’m afraid I’ll never be a writer, no matter how hard I work. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to make an impact on the world.

“That’s a start, keep going."

I’m scared every day. The truth weighs on me so heavily.

I feel like a fraud every time I go to church. I’m afraid to hear my pastor, my parents, my closest friends telling me I’m going to hell. I’m afraid I’m going to be lonely for a long time.

Hae-won had stopped talking. I opened my eyes. She was looking at me so earnestly that I couldn't stop my next thoughts:

I’m in love with you, Hae-won, even though you’ll never love me back that way.

I yanked off my helmet, my heart racing, and looked down at my lap. Was she reading those words on the screen? 

After an eternity, I looked up again, and she was smiling at me. "Thank you for sharing your truth with me," she said, and leaned forward to hug me. 

I began to find words for how I would describe this moment with Hae-won: the agony of baring my soul, and then the relief of acceptance. More ideas came to me; my next stories would chronicle my eventual battles to figure out my identity, to confront my religious community, to navigate a new world. I would be a writer no matter what, because I needed writing to help me survive the coming months and years. 

For now, I hugged Hae-won as tightly as I could.