As if to prove that my blog is relevant, The Guardian published an article by Belinda McKeon on the difficulties of autobiographical fiction writing yesterday. I particularly like this idea:
“The problem is with story; with the idea that life is anything like a story. It is not a story; it has been, and hopefully continues to be, a life.”
I’ve come back to this idea a few times in my PhD research on Dorothy Richardson because her autobiographical Pilgrimage novel sequence has pretty much been left unfinished since the last volume was published posthumously. Basically, can autobiography or autobiographical fiction ever have a satisfying ending if the life it’s based on continues?