I was in my twenties, already married with two young kids, sitting at a bar with a friend who was dating one of our closest friends. The guys were with us that night, but I can’t remember exactly where they were while she and I were talking. What I do remember is this: she was falling in love, and I saw it.
“You guys are going to get married,” I said.
She laughed, took a drag from her cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “No way.”
So I challenged her. “Let’s bet on it. If you get married within two years, you pay for a romantic weekend away—for my husband and me.” At that point, we couldn’t afford little luxuries like that, and the idea of a getaway would be a dream come true.
They did get married within the two years. My husband was the best man, I was the matron of honor, and our kids were the flower girl and ring bearer. I was so happy for them and excited that hubby and I would have a chance to get away.
After the wedding, I reminded her about the bet. She looked at me, totally blank. She remembered our bet, but differently. She wasn’t joking.
I never got that weekend away. But what stuck with me wasn’t the lost trip—it was the way our shared memory had splintered. She couldn’t give me the details of what we bet. For me, it was vivid.
That’s the thing about memory: it’s personal, it’s patchy, and it changes with time. Which is why, when writing a memoir, we’re all unreliable narrators, even when we try to be truthful.
What Writers Need to Know About Unreliability
I’ve written both fiction and nonfiction. In fiction, an unreliable narrator is a stylistic choice, used for tension or intrigue. In memoir, unreliability isn’t a choice—it’s a reality.
We misremember. We forget. We revise memories in light of new understanding. This doesn’t mean we’re dishonest; it means we’re human. And readers will understand that.
Here’s how to work with that truth:
- Acknowledge your lens. Use language that signals subjectivity, “as I remember it,” or “to the best of my recollection.”
- Welcome complexity. If others remember differently, say so: “She always insisted it happened another way.”
- Question your assumptions. Ask: Is this how it happened, or how it felt? Both matter, but they’re not the same.
- Be transparent. Ironically, admitting what you don’t know builds trust.
When memoirists try too hard to sound certain, they risk sounding false. Embracing unreliability doesn’t weaken your story, it deepens it.
Memory Is Messy—And That’s a Strength
Memory doesn’t work like a camera. It’s a collage of fragments, emotions, secondhand stories, and the distance of time. We remember selectively, emotionally, imperfectly.
That’s not a liability in memoir, it’s the point. Your job isn’t to deliver a court transcript of your life. It’s to evoke what it felt like to be you in that moment. That’s what resonates.
Lean into that:
- Use sensory detail: the smell of rain, the scratch of a wool sweater, the way the hall light glowed through a cracked door.
- Focus on emotional beats: a shift in a relationship, a betrayal, a realization.
- Be honest about uncertainty: “As best I remember,” or “I’ve told this story so many times, I no longer know where the truth ends and the retelling begins.”
Memoir isn’t about perfect accuracy. It’s about emotional clarity.
How to Use Unreliability to Strengthen Your Memoir
Unreliability isn’t something to fix—it’s something to explore. When you acknowledge the fallibility of memory, you add nuance and resonance. Readers aren’t looking for a fact-check; they’re looking for truth, especially the kind that wrestles with doubt.
Invite your reader in. Let them hear your questioning voice:
Grandma’s father killed himself—I think it was winter, though I can’t be sure.
Maybe he meant it kindly, but it didn’t feel that way.
She said she apologized but her sister says she never did. I’ll never know.
Memoir isn’t journalism. It’s reflection. The value lies in perspective, not objectivity. When two people remember the same event differently, include both versions:
My brother swears it happened at our grandmother’s house—I remember it on a beach. But we both agree on how it felt: strange, sad, unforgettable.
Your story becomes richer when you make room for contradiction.
When to Be Cautious
While embracing subjectivity, there are limits:
- Ethical responsibility: Avoid portraying others in ways that are knowingly false or damaging.
- Don’t hide behind disclaimers to avoid accountability.
- Legal caution: If writing about real people, consider name changes and consult legal advice if needed.
Truth vs. Truthfulness
Memoir isn’t about what happened as much as it’s about what it meant. Readers crave emotional truth, not flawless memory. Embrace your flawed, fragmented recollections. Let your doubt be part of the narrative.
Next time you question a memory, don’t wait for certainty. Write it anyway, and let the uncertainty become part of the story.
