It’s one of those #metoo stories I never told.
Buried in my subconscious, it first raise it’s ugly head, when in my teens, my boyfriend and I played at having sex.
When authors talk about it taking a year, or more, to write a book, they’re not wrong, For it’s stories like these that slows us down.
I know that every time I have a strong emotion around something, especially the kind of resistance I felt against the Shitty First Draft lesson – there’s something juicy in it for me to learn.
I had to give this lesson a lot of time to percolate in my mind before I arrived at my own truth.
I don’t want to write a memoir. It’s too raw and scary. Too ‘laying it all on the line,’ too vulnerable. I’m afraid I won’t find the #TRUTH, I’m afraid my story will be lopsided, with only my point of view. For whatever happened to me, happened because of something else that happened to someone else.
And I don’t know their truth, for if there is one thing I’m learning from writing my memoir, it is that the TRUTH is elusive, it changes and morphs into different forms the closer I get to it.