Thanks, Downith, for today’s title. It has a deadly combination of pretension and truth. This is why the Duchess and I get along.
As I said yesterday, there are a bunch of questions that are floating around my head. Most of them are too specific to be included in an anonymous enterprise such as this one. But increasingly it seems that the answer is to listen to myself. No, really listen.
One of the freeing things about my research trip/vacation was that I realized that one person does not have the whole answer about another’s life. This frees me up incredibly in my memoir-writing efforts. Then I can make it my own; not my uncle’s book, not any of my sisters’ book, just mine.
It’s a cliche. Most of young adult literature and many adult books are based on the premise that one should rely on oneself for answers. Hell, it’s the American way. But, so often we forget. So, fuck the game. Fuck your readers. Fuck what you think agents want.
Write for yourself.
Now get the fuck off the internet before I have to use the word “fuck” for the thirty-billionth time.