I haven’t started reading yet the bibliography for my subject on the memoir as a literary genre, to be taught next year, though I have already a substantial bibliography. G. Thomas Couser’s Memoir: An Introduction (Oxford UP, 2012) seems to be the right text to begin reading. I don’t think, in any case, that academic publications can help me to solve the riddle of critical judgement, as current scholarship tends to avoid that issue. It’s amazing to see how an article can consider a text in great depth without the author commenting at all on its quality. I’m, in contrast, quite straightforward in my positive or negative criticism, an honesty not always welcome by my peer reviewers.

The issue I want to raise is quite simple: judging memoirs is quite different from judging novels. When we judge novels we judge the ability of the author as a storyteller, as an inventor of characters and plots. In my previous post, I argued that when judging novels we take into account not only the interest of the story and the characters, but also the effort made by the author to fully exploit the potential of these elements. I noted, therefore that Suzanne Collins’s Sunrise on the Reaping, the fifth Hunger Games novel, is disappointing because Collins took the easier path (repeating the scheme of her first novel, The Hunger Games), instead of exploring other aspects of the universe she herself created. Reading this week RuPaul’s The House of Hidden Meanings: A Memoir (2024) and finding it also disappointing I wish to consider now how reader’s disappointment differs in novels and memoirs.

In novels, in which a degree of fictionalization is expected even when they are autobiographical, characterization produces the illusion of personality, but we know that characters are necessarily incomplete constructs. They are like those buildings used on studio lots, which are all façade and hide nothing behind. I’m not saying that fictional characters are superficial, but that they have only the depth that the author provides. We, literary scholars, are very fond of speculating about characters’ psychology and behaviour, but we risk sounding quite ridiculous if we go beyond certain established limits. There is no point, for instance, in writing a paper about what characters enjoy doing in their free time, if no information is provided by the author. Characters are not persons, and that’s final.

In contrast, writers of memoirs are indeed persons, who select which aspects of their personalities and experiences we can access as readers. In autobiographical fiction, writers turn themselves into characters through a similar process, but they need not be truthful. In, for instance, The Shards (2023), Brett Easton Ellis plays with his readers by lending his own name to his teen protagonist, though this does not mean that the character is Ellis himself nor that the extreme experiences he undergoes did happen to Ellis in his youth. As readers we need to understand that this is a just a literary game. In memoirs (or autobiographies), as noted, truthfulness is a must, though, of course, memoirists can and do lie, or can be extremely selective, hiding what is not convenient to reveal.

I’m not, anyway, criticising RuPaul for being insincere, mendacious or too selective, but for not being thorough enough as regards the description of his professional call (RuPaul is the most famous drag queen in the world). RuPaul, born in 1960, had already published three memoirs, Lettin’ It All Hang Out (1995), Workin’ It! (2010), and GuRu (2018), but, not having read them, I cannot say whether these volumes are more detailed and comprehensive. What I can tell about The House of Hidden Meanings is that it seems to be incomplete, which is odd coming from such a practised memoirist.
I’m borrowing from the website of Celadon Books a list of the extant types of memoir, cautioning that the distinction between autobiography (a memoir that covers the subject’s whole life) and memoir (an autobiographical text that covers mainly a major episode) seems increasingly irrelevant. Technically, RuPaul’s text is an autobiography, but since he calls it a memoir, this is what it is. The categories are quite loose, but here they are: transformation memoirs, confessional memoirs, professional memoirs, celebrity memoirs, travel memoirs. Another website, that of the Self-Publishing School, proposes a different list: traditional memoirs (they actually mean autobiography), childhood memoirs, coming-of-age memoirs, travel memoirs, literary memoirs, cultural memoirs, immigrant memoirs, historical memoirs, inspirational memoirs, memoirs of survival, memoirs of transformation. I miss here trauma memoirs, though the category memoirs of survival is quite similar.

These lists are, of course, limited and limiting. RuPaul’s volume is a celebrity memoir about how he became famous, but it has elements of many of the categories mentioned in the previous paragraph, including traumatic childhood memories of being abandoned by his father and even travel writing (one of RuPaul’s early jobs was fetching premium second-hand cars all over America for his brother-in-law’s business). I’m not really a fan of RuPaul, knowing about him through news mainly. I have never listened to his music, nor have I seen any of the very popular TV shows he has developed. I expected his memoir to include detailed information about his unique professional career and a consideration of drag as a phenomenon and of the drag community, both in relation to gender and sexuality. Instead, RuPaul insists mainly on two ideas: one, that, as his pregnant mother was told by a psychic, he was always destined for fame (the mother gave him a unique name to facilitate his future celebrity!) and, two, his looks were so uncommon that it was odd for RuPaul to be desired, until he found love.

Checking GoodReads, I see that I’m not the only reader getting the impression that drag was not a strong vocation for RuPaul, but a practical means to reach fame, and that he could have become famous through other arts or offices. I know nothing about any controversies that RuPaul may have been involved in, though I recall reading that he is not really a drag activist, paradoxical as this may seem. The memoir, indeed, says nothing about any drag association or movement, or about the evolution of drag in the United States. A person who knows nothing at all about drag would be puzzled as to what it is that RuPaul did to become so famous. This is the equivalent of reading an author’s memoir in which they refer to their immense talent without mentioning that they write books. It was peculiar, to say the least.

I’ll also note something that bothers me about the memoirs of professional success. The protagonist usually comes from a humble background and reaches a low point when it seems impossible that their dreams can be fulfilled. Yet, a miracle happens and this brings on the breakthrough that jumpstarts their careers. In RuPaul’s case, he was back in his mother’s home in San Diego after failing to conquer New York when, suddenly, a friend based in that city called him to, basically, order him to return. The rest was history. RuPaul is grateful to that friend, and humble enough to present luck as a key factor in his breakthrough, but there is no reflexion on what happens to those who, being equally talented, never made it. RuPaul has enormous confidence in himself and believes in the prophecy announcing his fame at all times, but others equally confident have failed or have not been sufficiently acknowledged; yet, in all the memoirs of success that I have read very few thoughts are spared for them. This lends this type of memoir a smugness that often alienates potential readers.

So, if a memoir disappoints you, does this mean you end up disliking the author? Not necessarily. In the case I’m discussing, my frustration with RuPaul’s memoir comes from my dissatisfaction with the book, not the author. I still want to know more about RuPaul, but at the same time the style of the memoir is not inviting enough for me to want to read his other memoirs. I might read perhaps biographical articles (not books!) written by others analysing his career and his important contribution to popularizing drag. I would say that in that sense he is a failed memoirist, though he is an awesome artist as a major drag queen. I’ll grant, in contrast, that I have a much better opinion of Pamela Anderson after reading her excellent memoirs Love, Pamela (2023) because the book destroys many stereotypes about who she is.

I’ll finish noting that writing one’s memoirs is extremely complex, as you need to strike the right balance between good storytelling and engaging content. You need to be brave to expose your private life, which readers always expect to a greater or lesser extent; you need to be honest about the less savoury aspects of your personality, and you need to communicate experiences that must be relatable but also singular. It’s a lot to ask for, and this is why I’m grateful that so many persons have published their memoirs. I know I will never write mine, out of pure, simple cowardice.