To have someone who believes in you is a gift. To have a string of such people is simply incalculable: I am overwhelmed to have such good fortune. From the start of my writing journey there were many willing to read and question, advise and support, inspire and encourage, and in doing so, help me find my way into the fictional yet fractured Ueland family who people the core of Crazy String. So yes, I have much gratitude for so many.
There is no denying that at the center of memoir is an unreliable narrator. As I wrote yesterday,”Working with memory is even less faithful than fiction. There is nothing to google or investigate. Sure I can ask a brother or two, but I don’t remember any of them standing with me in that short hallway between the kitchen and my father’s den.” In memoir you stand alone, even if the subject of your work is the whole lot of you, you have only yourself to corroborate with.
As I plunge further into my own murky and dark past I have only my instinct to rely on; here the tenants of fiction and non-fiction collide, for they are both born of the creative spark that ignites my fingers across the keyboard. Beyond that they deviate.
