Unlocking the Truth Behind Memoir Missteps: Why Emotional Insight Is the Missing Key
For more than 20 years, I’d told a story about the suicide of the love of my life when I was just 17. I’d written our love story from its unlikely beginning through its tragic end. I remembered us being together constantly, but my search turned up evidence of how little time we’d actually spent. A handful of hours over six weeks. We were far from each other’s “one and only.”
The suicide was a fact; I still have the little laminated card they give out at funerals. The depth of who we were to each other was something I seemed to have woven from disparate threads in my head. It didn’t feel like a lie. I’d taken some facts and massaged them into a persona and a truth I could live with—that we’d had an ill-fated romance worthy of Shakespeare. It was proof I was lovable.
Post Comment