On Moral (Non)Fiction: Ethics in Life, Ethics in Storytelling
A funny thing happened to me in the grocery store the other day.
But first, an update.
When I was a kid, my mother would chastise me for having “too many fingers in too many pies.” She’s say, “You’re always running around doing a million things at once!” Well, that never changed. I still tend to have several creative projects going on at the same time. (This strategy works for me, but I think it probably makes other people in my life a little crazy!) So, this raised the question: What should I focus on for my Substack newsletter?
I decided to poll my readers and followers on social media, and I offered them four choices:
Literary/Creative Nonfiction, including technique, style, "tips," storytelling ethics, and book and essay reviews. Traditional and hybrid forms. Who’s writing what.
Behind-the-scene stories, facts, characters, and premieres (Summer 2024) of the documentary on Rocky Flats: "Full Body Burden: The Documentary." The personal stories, the hidden truths, the ongoing historical and devastating environmental legacy of the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant.
Little-known facts, stories, and research regarding my forthcoming book Friend and Faithful Stranger: Nikola Tesla in the Gilded Age. Why do I care so much about writing the life story of a genius who died 80 years ago? (Hint: Tesla was a poet and a philosopher, as well as inventing and envisioning much of our current technological world. And much of what you read about him is nonsense.)
Stories and research regarding my forthcoming collection of essays, Wide and Generous World (which includes a couple of essays on my brush with Ted Bundy, two good ghost stories, a scary snake story, and a few glimpses into my unexpectedly weird life. :-))
I also asked my beloved readers, is it ok to mix it up?
To my great relief, readers were almost equally interested in each of these topics, and everyone -- unanimously -- said, “Mix it up!” So that’s what I’m going to do. Buckle your seatbelts! Each newsletter will focus on one of these topics, and then cycle to the next.
The connective tissue, of course, is that we’ll be taking a close look at what makes a good story in terms of content, style, structure, and research. How do you shape real life experiences into essays, memoir, biography, stories, film? How do you know when you’ve caught a great story by the tail, and how do you turn it into a piece of literary art?
These are all the things I want to talk about, and I hope you do, too.
Now, on to the topic of the day: Ethics in Life, Ethics in Storytelling.
Ethics is kind of a scary word. It can mean different things to different people. It’s also something we encounter every day of our lives in one form or another, and certainly in our writing, regardless of genre. In literary nonfiction, though, we have to consider things a little differently. When one writes fiction and poetry, there is a mask or veil between the writer and the reader. The reader understands that imagination generally takes precedence over everything else. For example, it might not matter one bit if the creative work is based in actual research or the author’s lived experience. The creative work is not necessarily tied to the real world in the same way as a work that is defined or represented as literary nonfiction/creative nonfiction.
I like to think of literary nonfiction, in all its forms, as a delicate balance of ethics, aesthetics, fact, and imagination. Imagination always plays a role, but truth and fact matter. There is a real, verifiable connection to the real world. Yet none of this comes together in a compelling story without imagination, style, structure, and – yes – ethics. For writers of literary nonfiction, each page, each paragraph, involves some sort of challenge regarding ethics and aesthetics.
Now, the story about the grocery store.
I was standing in the self-checkout lane in a smallish grocery store. The store was very busy, lines were long. The man in front of me, probably in his mid 70’s, looking a bit worn, finished bagging his groceries and walked out of the store. When I reached the kiosk, I realized he hadn’t paid. The amount due was $27.32.
Let’s pause here. Curious to see how others would respond, I later posted this much of the story on Facebook. What would you do? I asked.
Run after him to see if he’s forgotten or needs help.
Pay his grocery bill for him (anonymously).
Call security.
Other.
I was stunned by how many people responded. I tallied it up and was somewhat surprised to see that 68% chose #2, to pay the bill anonymously. Comments included “Pay his bill ... that’s what we hope others will do for us. That’s a civil society,” and “If you can, pay his bill. It assumes the best of him--that he just forgot or didn't know how to work the self-checkout or maybe is hungry and has no money.” Some noted that he could be suffering from dementia or some other illness.
The “other” category, #4, came in second place at 19%, with comments such as “I would mind my own business. You don't know his story,” and “The ethical obligation rests with the store, not you.”
Answers #1 (run after him) and #3 (call security) tied for third place, with some interesting comments. “This is one of the many reasons why I despise self-check. Not only does it take away jobs, it encourages intentional or accidental theft, which then drives up the prices for everyone.” One person noted that it was a small grocery store, and “this kind of theft could have a real impact on a small business if it happens repeatedly whereas for a larger chain grocery, I wouldn’t be inclined to report the small food theft.”
The next day, I posted a follow-up question with a further wrinkle to the story. When I had left the store (with a full cart of Thanksgiving items, eventually purchased through regular checkout), I realized, as I exited left through the main entrance of the grocery store, that the man had walked out a small, single-door side exit on the right, just past the registers. It looked like the fire alarm had been disabled and it was apparently being used by employees, although, as I mentioned, there were no employees in sight (except one clerk at the regular checkout). The man had walked out very quickly, and I had not seen his face.
My new question to my readers: Does this new information change your answer? The answer was a resounding NO. Of the nearly 200 people who responded, not a single person changed their mind. This was somewhat surprising, and significant.
This heartened my faith in human empathy and goodness. But I also had to reconsider my own response to the situation. When I realized the kiosk was frozen, I had indeed turned on the “help” light. No clerk appeared, and I felt I couldn’t leave my basket and run out to the parking lot to try to find the man. I had only glimpsed the back of his head; I wasn’t sure I would even recognize him. The people behind me were getting increasingly upset. Finally, I stepped out of line and over to the regular register, and the blinking kiosk was still blinking by the time I left the store.
Here's the thing: By the time I reached the parking lot and had given the situation a little more thought, intuitively I felt almost certain the man had been shoplifting.
Does that change the story, for me? Does age and gender matter? How would I have reacted if it were, say, a teenager? A mom with three kids? A man wearing expensive cowboy boots? Does the amount of money matter? One reader commented, “My default is to do the kind thing and just pay the small amount, but the thing is that if it was $327.32 instead of $27.32, we wouldn't pay that, we'd call someone. The behavior shouldn't change based on the dollar amount of the unpaid items, hypothetically, right?”
Right? Or not?
And how does all this connect to the challenge of writing literary nonfiction?
Thank you so much for your kind attention! And now, in the words of radio broadcaster Paul Harvey, for “The Rest of the Story” (and part 2 of this anecdote), please consider becoming a paid subscriber. I am grateful for your support, and I welcome your comments.
And I will never send you to a self-service kiosk.