Whose Undies Can I Show?

My parents' bathrooms gross me out. I don't know how they can stand the icky loose hairs, the disturbing dust collector glueyish splotches around the toilet, the marks of soap scum on the tub and mildew around the faucets. How uncool is it for me to write about that, though?

I just finish David Sedaris' "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim," where he brings up just this point. His family stopped sharing things with him after he began writing his books. They knew they would become fodder for his essays. The half.com synopsis describes it this way, his sister's "resentment of his relentless mining of their shared past in his essays." Who can blame them? I'm sure my parents won't be too thrilled that I've exposed their disgusting bathroom problem (they clean up before real company).

My most recent essay used the real name of the girl who beat me up in high school. Does interacting with me bring with it the risk I might write about it?

I'm realizing the answer to that question is yes, it does. My nearest and dearest know I write about my experiences. Being a part of my life means being a part of my writing.

The question that has me zoning out in a contemplative haze lately is: how much anonymity do I owe my loved ones? (Or those barely familiar to me, for that matter.)

Sedaris' apparent disrespect for his family's privacy brings great results. He's brutal. Other writers handle this love-me-I'll-write-about-you issue differently. Anne Lamott seems to (mostly) ask her son's permission before sharing stories. Or, he's come to realize he needs to preface intimate discussions with "don't write about this, okay?" or something like that.

I have no desire to shame my family (sorry about those bathroom comments! it's really not that bad...), but aren't the dirtiest little secrets the most fun to read? Someone as shallow as Seinfeld was so successful in great part because he found the mundane we all experience and used it. What is fair game for my writing material?

For the most part I come at this question from the position of a reader, rather than a writer. I've always read the stories that uncover the most personal experiences. I remember as a youngster being obsessed with stories of teen pregnancy, runaways, abused children. The more personal and shocking, the better. As a child, fiction was my favorite (do you remember "Flowers in the Attic?") and as an adult personal essays and memoirs hold the most fascination for me.

Exposing my friends and family for the sake of telling a good story has me hesitating. Sharing intimate details about their lives seems disrespectful. Claiming what I write is fiction would be untrue. I write about my own experiences. I'm beginning to write more frequently about the story of my life. I'm compelled to tell these stories. Protecting feelings of those around me seems to be taking a back seat to getting the stories out on paper -- hopefully in a form a publisher will use.

On the one hand, there is a moral or ethical dilemma where I am concerned for the welfare of my friends and family (and even for those who I met only in passing). They haven't given permission for me to include them in my stories.

On the other hand, there is the driving force within me to tell these stories. It can't be stopped.