In memoir the truth is a moving target. You can be as honest as you believe yourself to be but you may misremember events or your interpretation may skew the story.
I feel as though my current projects are a sort of a bridge, touching history and bringing the knowledge of past generations to the modern day world.
Writing those first pages, it’s hard to have faith that anyone will suspend disbelief—that the world can be made real enough for even the writer to believe in it.
Every “realistic” short story I write is a betrayal. Perversely, the short stories which seem to engage most readers are indeed these more — forgive me — realistic ones.
The poet discussion the exhilaration of exploration, the tension of creation, and one’s readiness to engage with content that is within.
The writer thinks about intention, chronological order and connection to a story.
Writing the poem changes me, and I welcome that. I don’t see that as a betrayal of myself or the work, but more of an evolution.
“Editing is part of any serious writer’s journey. We all need eyes other than our own on our material, even if it’s scary to put your soul on paper and hand it over.”
I see the stories as something I sorted out, something I worked through. A problem I solved.
“I’ve learned not to share a piece of writing if my main reason for sharing is that I want validation from someone else.”
“Treat it like a job and Divorce it utterly from all notions of a job: Both things are true.”
When/where you find yourself scared and paralyzed, either of something you are writing, of revealing yourself through the work, or for any other reason, how do you start moving again? And by moving I mean forward, not backwards, as in retreating?
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