I wrote the memoir. It was a short piece for an anthology that doesn’t pay much, so just this morning, I decided not to send it. I don’t need the publication credit, and I don’t want it out there. It might hurt my husband or it might not, but he’s not the only one I’m thinking about. My sons don’t need to see this.
I think of all the people who I’ve hurt, all of those who hurt me, all of the times I’d had to forgive, the times I needed to be forgiven. The past–it will haunt you if you let it. The one who lifted my shirt while I was sleeping and touched me when I was a girl. The one who said a nasty thing to me, something a friend should never say. The one who talked to my chest every time I saw him when he should have been looking at my eyes. The one who grabbed my ass behind the bar. The one…well, you get it.
I still admire the idea of writing about stepfamilies and I realized that this is exactly what I am doing in my fiction. I am writing my second novel about “steps.” It’s a theme with me, and this is the way to get it out. Not through biography, but through my truest eyes. It seems strange, but I can be far more truthful in my fiction than I can in any other type of writing.