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A review by jaclynday
My Father, the Pornographer by Chris Offutt
3.0
Unpacking the secrets of our parents through the murky, unreliable lens of childhood and the starker, less forgiving one of adulthood requires a deft hand and Offutt, the author of several other books and screenwriter for True Blood and Weeds, has met the challenge in a big way.
His relationship with his father is the nexus of the book, though his mother, siblings, and other people are essential to the story too. His father, under several pen names, started writing science fiction and eventually became a prolific writer of erotic fiction—Offutt describes his father's specialties ranging from outer space porn to Wild West porn.
Offutt, a writer himself, struggles to understand the father of his childhood: a sometimes frightening parental figure, but an intensely focused and dedicated writer. We see the man (and Offutt’s relationship to him) from as many angles as possible, which is maybe the most honest and raw thing about this memoir. It’s difficult to tell two parallel, but often conflicting, stories at once—one of Offutt, one of his dad—and so he tries to valiantly honor the complexity with delving into the many faces and moods of their collective family life. He does not shy away from the darker moments, which he recalls vividly and with great emotion.
One of the great pains of this book is Offutt’s realization that he never knew his father per se, and after his death, was forced to reconstruct him through the various detritus remaining in the house. Hundreds of dusty books later, Offutt concludes that perhaps some people are unknowable except for what we can discover about them on the page. Whether they’re poor clues or difficult clues or not clues at all, it makes no difference to Offutt: it’s all he has to go on and he immerses himself in it.
His relationship with his father is the nexus of the book, though his mother, siblings, and other people are essential to the story too. His father, under several pen names, started writing science fiction and eventually became a prolific writer of erotic fiction—Offutt describes his father's specialties ranging from outer space porn to Wild West porn.
Offutt, a writer himself, struggles to understand the father of his childhood: a sometimes frightening parental figure, but an intensely focused and dedicated writer. We see the man (and Offutt’s relationship to him) from as many angles as possible, which is maybe the most honest and raw thing about this memoir. It’s difficult to tell two parallel, but often conflicting, stories at once—one of Offutt, one of his dad—and so he tries to valiantly honor the complexity with delving into the many faces and moods of their collective family life. He does not shy away from the darker moments, which he recalls vividly and with great emotion.
One of the great pains of this book is Offutt’s realization that he never knew his father per se, and after his death, was forced to reconstruct him through the various detritus remaining in the house. Hundreds of dusty books later, Offutt concludes that perhaps some people are unknowable except for what we can discover about them on the page. Whether they’re poor clues or difficult clues or not clues at all, it makes no difference to Offutt: it’s all he has to go on and he immerses himself in it.