Lee Harper Oswald

Okay, at some point, I’ll be making an announcement, but, as it stands, the red tape is holding that up. The thing I’ll be working on is, indeed, metal related, and despite waiting for paperwork, I have actually commenced work on it, which has been keeping me busy. That said, I am also working on another project, which has been a long time coming: a memoir.

Years ago, before I’d even turned thirty, I was trying to figure out how to write about my life, because even by that point, it had been screwed up enough to maybe warrant something. Honestly, before I turned twenty, what had occurred up to that point was worth writing about. Not because I am interesting, but my background certainly is, in a wow, that’s kind of fucked up sort of way. Well, that’s an understatement. The looks on the faces of those to whom I’ve related even about a third of it, over the course of the telling, go from slightly uncomfortable, to downright appalled, to a combination of the previous two plus disbelief, and then a kind of sad resignation. And they don’t even get the full story, because that’s not possible in a single conversation!

But anyway, when I considered writing about this around 2000, I was told by someone whose opinion I trusted at the time (a massive and completely unjustifiable mistake) that no one cares about my life, so it wasn’t worth writing about — like what kind of idiot was I to even consider that anyone would care about me or my life? Obviously, my life being what it was, I absolutely believed him, because my self-esteem was supremely shitty. Thus, I did not seriously consider writing about my life until I was in college in my 30s minoring in Writing, probably around 2007 or so. Mind you, in the seven years in between, my life and events therein had only become more ridiculous and fucked up (some of which were a direct result of the guy who told me no one cared about my life).

So, it’s been a long time that I’ve been trying to figure out exactly how to write about my life (and it doesn’t stop!). If I tried to summarize it for you right here, the summarization would actually be too long, and might count, if not as a full-sized book in itself, at least a novella-length but of writing. I can’t even begin to hint at it, because each bit leads to (and supports or is supported by) another bits, on and on — it’s impossible to draw a line, and it’s not even linear, which is extremely unhelpful. (My outline is going to be unwieldy, I can tell already.) I’ve considered every possible tactic — straight-up serious memoir (that’s a wrist-slitting idea if I’d ever had one), novelization, flash-fiction collection, poetry, graphic novel (no kidding, because why not give my trauma accompanying comic artwork?). Nothing seemed right, and any time I sat down to even just make notes based on memory, my anger was palpable.

So, I recently finished Colin Jost‘s autobiography — which, I enjoyed and is by no means filled with trauma and what-have-you — and it occurred to me that the only way I couldn’t possibly write this — that which apparently must be written, because I can’t just let it go* — the best way for me to do this without being overcome with enough rage and depression to prompt a potential mass murder, is to make fun of everything and everyone, including myself (easy-peasy!). At once, it seemed doable, whereas before it felt impossible. And let me tell you, my life is absolutely rife with tragicomical possibilities. That said, it would also be a real challenge as a writer, because I’m not entirely sure how to make childhood neglect, emotional abuse, molestation, familial isolation, maternal gaslighting, abject racism, domestic violence, and repeated narcissistic/sociopathic abuse funny. But I’m sure gonna try!

Seriously though, that’s a challenge, and as a writer, I’m here for it. As readers, an audience may or may not be, but…we’ll see.

So, as for this blog–which had been a thing of chaos — Mondays (in addition to publishing fiction chapters) are for Metal or the Memoir. Metal, as related to the other project I’m waiting to come through, and Memoir, as related to the horror show that is my life. Next time, I’ll maybe tell you more about why this feels like the right way to go and what I’d like to accomplish.

*Part of the reason I can’t let it go is that, with each shovel-full of bullshit I have had to deal with, the less I can imagine not getting anything out of it (because, largely, there is no justice, no responsibility taken, no nothing like that). It’s all just too much and the only way I can reasonably justify any of it is to be able to create something from it. One simply can’t have this level of destruction without some kind of creation in its wake. Sure, it all created me, but if you, like me, are the proud owner of a subjective experience, then you know how not enough that actually is. I need to create a thing from this garbage pile that I can hold in my hand and throw it at other people. It’s just the way it must be.