“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.just change their height and hair color. No one ever once has recognized him or herself in my fiction. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” — Anne Lamott
I creepily took this from her FB wall, but I don’t care. It’s truth.
I am about twenty pages into a “fiction” and yes, it is fiction but hell’s bells. Anyone could tell who my characters are. I get almost creeped out by that myself. I kill people I love. I court people who are entirely inappropriate. I used to think that I couldn’t write for true until my mother died. Now I think that it’s possible I couldn’t do it until I was the last person on earth.
Which would sort of be depressing.
I don’t know how well I tell stories, but moments – I get moments. I can write the shit out of moments. Maybe I’ve just never been very good at making things up. The truth has always been more interesting to me, something I could grasp. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? I just read through a collection I’m arranging and at the end I was absolutely panicked because it’s me and dark parts of me and other people and for sure they would and will know. It’s hard writing the truth about people in a hidden way – seems counter productive? I remember Sharon Olds saying something about having to protect her muses. I hope that the people who know and love me accept the possibility they may be in my work at some point – sort of a comes with the territory thing. Or one of those traits they love to hate and just have to accept. I have something I need to write and I have thought, maybe I’ll wait until those people die before I do it, but maybe if I wait too long the story will be lost? Write it first, decide later. xo
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