There is, on one hand, the impulse to state the obvious as we saw (or felt or heard) it, without heed to the perspective of the individuals we’re writing about. There is, on the other, the moral imperative to accept that our perspective isn’t definitive, and it’s best for us to exercise some care in how we speak about others. Finding a balance between both impulses is at the core of an ethical practice.

There are three ways to deal with this.

One way is to generally avoid the scandalous. By this I mean that the memoirist is less interested in exacting revenge on others on the page—recounting aspects of an experience that simply casts others in unsavoury light. This is not to suggest that every memoir must avoid unpleasant subjects. Hence the second suggestion.

The memoirist should, as far as is possible, seek the input of those whose lives they have written about. What, for instance, does a painful childhood experience look like from the perspective of a sibling or parent? How does an estranged partner reflect on the pain of separation? With feedback, the story doesn’t only expand in perspective but deepens in meaning. Where this is impossible, the writer is freed from the demands of exactitude. Yet, recall the first suggestion.

Finally, focus on the intent of the story. The story’s purpose, in my view, is greater than any one character. And so, where it is difficult to write about another individual with care, the memoirist should reflect insistently on why the story is being written and decide based on the needs of the overall narrative. What universal claims are being made about people, places, or ideas? After all, each individual life is a tributary in a sea of stories.