When we write, we draw on memory: whether the events we're describing happened today, or decades ago. Even if the events happened before we were born, in which case we're drawing on other people's memories and matching them to our own remembered experiences. Even if the story we're telling is made up, we're still drawing on memories of how things work. Heck, if the events in our made-up story are happening in a parallel universe, or the far, far distant future, we're still using our memories to invent new scenes. Memory is a primary tool.

I watched an interesting film last night. It's called All for Liberty. It stars Clarence Felder, who's an experienced character actor with stage and television credits, and it's based on his stage play, Captain Felder's Cannon. His wife directed and co-starred. As you can tell if you watch that extended trailer, it's fairly low-budget and stars dozens of re-enactors (and involves an alligator wrangler). As someone on Amazon Prime commented, the film is obviously a labour of love. Although All for Liberty looks at first blush to be an unnecessary flag-waving exercise, it's not. It's a surprisingly good retelling of some events from the southern campaign of the US War for Independence.

The reason I mention this film in the context of memory is that Clarence Felder made it to honour his 6th-great-grandfather, John Henry Felder. John Henry, or Johann Heinrich, was born in Zürich and came to South Carolina colony as a teenager, along with his parents. Felder was well respected in his Backcountry community, and became a leader in the war. He, his sons, and his friends, including a Cherokee, helped stymy the British attempt to secure the southern colonies for the Crown. One of their successes involved a rather clever stratagem.

To tell this story, the filmmakers used re-enactors, as I said. They also used authentic locations in South Carolina – some of them are historic sites. They drew on museum artefacts and historical accounts to create authentic-looking costumes, weapons, and items of material culture. And yeah, they carefully wrangled a friendly alligator into that river to add menace to a combat scene. In other words, they were drawing on memories: historical memories that were written down, the memories contained in objects and places, and, no doubt, family memories of stories passed down from generation to generation. That's about as real as you can get – which means, realer than Hollywood usually manages.

The test of all this memory work comes when you venture into fiction. Obviously, the filmmakers can only afford so much realism. They can't stage a pitched battle like Cowpens, no budget. They can't turn this into War and Peace, complete with telegenic trick horses. (They do have a steed or two.) For budgetary reasons, and for narrative economy, they're going to have to fudge the tale a bit. They'll combine characters, make up events. The test is whether, once they've done that, the story still manages to convey something akin to reality. I'd say they pass muster here, but let me give you an example of where the reality is probably better than what they could show.

A principal character used to tie the narrative together is John Rutledge, governor of South Carolina and member of the Continental Congress. I can't find any evidence that he was ever mistaken for British Major James Wemyss, as in this movie, but it works okay as a plot device. The film doesn't go very deeply into the stories of either Rutledge or Wemyss, other than to make Rutledge one of the good guys and Wemyss definitely a bad guy. In actuality, Wemyss was rather a bad character – questions were asked in Britain about why the British leaders couldn't control their officers, and atrocities really did happen. Yes, atrocities happened on both sides. Let us be clear about that. It was a much nastier war than most high school history books let on.

Rutledge, on the other hand, was quite a fascinating person, and not altogether likeable. People called him 'Dictator John'. He feuded with Charles Lee, the British general who changed sides to the Americans, and thought he should have been running the war instead of that ignorant colonial, George Washington. The fact that Rutledge was right about a lot of things didn't really help. Rutledge, an alumnus of London's Inner Temple, later became the only jurist ever removed involuntarily from the US Supreme Court. He attempted suicide by jumping into Charleston Bay. His brother Edward was this man in the musical 1776. John resigned as governor when South Carolina adopted a constitution that was, er, 'too democratic'.

My point here is that, no, you can't tell everything you know. But you have to try not to tell any lies. You want to keep the memories as accurate as possible. I think, from checking, that John Rutledge couldn't have been where they put him, when they put him there. But it's obvious that the actor knew who the man was and played him in all his ambivalence.

The main character, John Henry Felder, might be harder to know – at least, if you aren't his direct descendant. The portrayal, though, seemed quite true to life. How do I know? I don't, I'm guessing. I'm using my own memories: of what German Swiss are like, of what I know about the Carolina Backcountry, where I also had ancestors running about at the time, of what those places felt like when I visited them, and even my own memories of the sights, sounds, and smells of the region.

Other memories we draw on when we read or watch fiction: our sense of how people relate to one another. Our experience of what kinds of people there are in the world, and what motivates them to do what they do. Even our own assessments of how humans deal with difficult decisions, such as what side to take on an issue that may put their lives on the line. Our knowledge of science and our appreciation for logical thinking. We could make a long list of things we draw on when we hear a story.

We need all of that when we write stories, too. Our memories are fully engaged before we type the first words. We've got to visualise the spaces, understand the context. Feel what the characters feel. If we don't, it will look like bad amateur writing, or even worse: it will come out like cheap Hollywood paint-by-numbers stuff. We don't want that. Any story worth telling is worth telling well, from a 500-word short-short to the Great European Novel. Be sure to use all your memory tools. And pass that story on: someday, your 6th-great-grandchild may want to make a film.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

26.06.17 Front Page

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