I’ve decided to publish a few of my stories here. I hope you enjoy them. I’ve been writing bits and pieces of memoir ever since I first started taking notes around age ten. The term “gaslighting” hadn’t been invented, but I always felt like I was being asked to go along with a narrative that just wasn’t true, and that by writing down what I saw, I was setting the record straight. Or maybe I wrote in an attempt to gain control over a life that felt so out of control.
Over the years my stories have been through a lot. I’ve twisted and pulled at them, adding and subtracting, reworking and reshuffling, often uncertain if I’m making them better or worse. Now that I’m almost an old lady, and still haven’t looked for an agent or publisher, it’s starting to feel more like performance art. It would be funny if I could write my death scene, and narrate my way out of existence.
I never dreamed of being a writer. I dreamed of being an actress, but was too afraid to try. It was too important to me- I wanted it too badly. I was too cowardly to risk failure. It’s a shame, because I think I might have been good. And it’s still in me- that hope- even at sixty. There is something so absurd and even sad about the hopes and dreams of humans. Where do they come from? What makes someone long to sing opera or create an origami ladder to the stars? Writing was just what I did. No one could stop me. You don’t need permission to write, you don’t need to be chosen- you only need a pencil and paper.
D