Opinion Oversharing the story of me

I have watched with fascination and some alarm,the rise of the first-person narrative in Indian journalism on matters other than frontline war experiences. In India,newspapers and news magazines have always been about facts,reporting and original opinions on issues as diverse as foreign affairs and Sreesanth. Though stories on the human condition,parenting and relationships have always made it to page one,they had to have a news context. But now mommy talk by full-time mommies,not journalists,is the rage in newspapers. Cheesy headlines like “The O-Zone”,a piece on relationships that says nothing in particular,are prominently displayed. A slew of news websites have sprung up and actively encourage people with no expertise to hold forth on public policy and the lack of eligible men in Delhi. Frighteningly,sometimes the same person holds forth on both.

A lot of older people I meet who haven’t grown up with Facebook and Twitter talk contemptuously about the narcissism of our times,genuinely baffled by an entire generation’s chronic need to overshare. They don’t realise our world has changed so much that ceaseless self-promotion online can lead to a glorious career. If you generate enough “likes” or are retweeted a thousand times,you may land a book deal. The more convoluted your sentences and the less your 160 characters can be understood,the more likely you are to be retweeted. And there’s no need to feel sheepish,since everybody’s part of this self-congratulatory game. Spouses retweet each other,journalists retweet simpering sweet praises of their own pieces,politicians retweet their supporters.

This has spun off a new beat,creative non-fiction writing,which,in India,we’re just at the beginning of. Not to say there’s no merit in first-person narratives; every so often we all stumble on that great piece where somebody’s life mirrors our own reality,the hallmark of a terrific essayist. Unfortunately,Indians are lousy at soul-baring. And to be compelling in the personal,me-centred writing space requires a level of searing honesty that goes against our inherently self-conscious natures.

The internet has given every narcissist a forum to vent,but a large list of unresolved issues does not make for interesting reading,unless you have something truly sensational to say. Like the quote I read somewhere,unless you fell off the treadmill and smacked your face,nobody wants to hear about your workout. The first-person narrative has to have the shock value of reality TV. Especially when you’re not important. If you’re the earnest office-goer,clocking in at 9:30 am after battling rush hour,nobody wants to hear about it. But when you have something tragic to share,you’ll get a million hits. Keeping up with the messy lives of others,preferably about them unravelling,is a guilty pleasure many of us enthusiastically partake in.

And there are some new writers whose chaotic lives make for delightful reading. One goes by the moniker Sonali K (her bio reads: Sonali drinks whiskey,not cosmopolitan). K is brave enough to write those unflattering truths,unflinchingly and assertively. About how monogamy doesn’t come naturally to her or the perils of dating married men,casual sex and the humiliation of being dumped. The topics may be deliberately provocative,but she carries off the lost-girl-on-verge-of-discovery convincingly. When we relate to it,creative non-fiction or self-confessional writing is inspiring. It needs to go beyond banal gripes and stylised italics,saying what needs to be said,artfully but clearly. Like the legendary essayist Gore Vidal lamented,“As societies grow decadent,words are used to disguise,not to illuminate.” The reader,sometimes,is smart enough to tell.

Kala writes a weekly column for ‘The Indian Express’;

leher.kala@expressindia.com