In today’s Boston Globe, columnist Alex Beam criticizes writer Lauren Slater for what he calls “oversharing.” Referring to her recent New York Times column, in which she discusses her lack of sex drive, Beam writes:
Lauren, whom I know a little, is a veteran revealer, so the notion that she would share the intimacies of the marriage bed with millions of readers was nothing new. Over the years, she has written about her struggles with cancer, depression, and suicidal thoughts.
This piece seemed ever more cringe-inducing because it involved her husband of 10 years (eager for “hot sex”) and her children, who someday may read about Mommy’s first orgasm, her torrid affair with a man not her fiance, and the onset of her personal Big Chill: Sex “interests me these days about as much as playing checkers,” she wrote.
…after reading her column, I wondered: Did we really need to know?
He goes on to mention other literary “exhibits” in “today’s Too Much Information Museum”—V.S. Naipaul, Susan Cheever—citing their “ickiness,” most of which is sexual in nature.
I had a very visceral reaction to Beam’s column. An exhibit, if you will, in the Museum of Julie, called “Shut the fuck up.”
If Beam was so turned off by Lauren Slater’s column, why did he read it? I’ll tell you why: Because it’s fascinating. And honest. And because she (gasp!) reveals so much, perhaps, yes, too much.
While I may not relate to Slater’s predicament, nor approve of her adultery, nor understand her willingness to allow her husband to sleep with other women, I could appreciate her willingness to write about such things and was more than willing to read about them. And apparently, so was Beam.
Here’s the thing about art: You don’t have to read, watch, listen to, or see it if you don’t want to. Don’t like what Lauren Slater has to say? Don’t read her.
Beam concludes his article:
When I mentioned Cain’s cheerily dismissive book review, Cheever countered: “People never review my books, they just end up reviewing me.” But isn’t that because . . . Oh, never mind.
I can’t help but wonder how this man calls himself a writer. My mentor taught me long ago one very valuable lesson about memoir writing: No matter how much a writer “overshares” in his or her work, there is always some division. A writer is not her writing. She is merely its creator. And the fact that Beam even questions this, or insinuates that there is no division, leads me to believe that he doesn’t know the first thing about writing, or oversharing, for that matter.
There is a distinct difference between revealing intimate details about your life for art’s sake (literature) and doing so for other, less noble reasons (reality TV).
Here is my hope: The next time Beam takes the train, he’ll sit down next to a woman who’s feeling particularly chatty. Her boyfriend has just cheated on her, see, and she could use a male perspective. Maybe her boyfriend wouldn’t have cheated, she wonders aloud, had she been more adventurous in bed. What do you think? she’ll turn to Beam and ask. Should I have let him use the handcuffs?
Then and only then will Alex Beam know the true meaning of oversharing.
My friend and former boss, Alex Goldfeld, recently published a book: The North End: A Brief History of Boston’s Oldest Neighborhood. It’s a fantastic read (and I’m not just saying that because I know the author or helped edit the book).