Over the weekend, a friend said to me, “That’s so brave, to put all that out there, I’d be afraid to be so vulnerable.”
Her words have stayed with me. When I was reviewing the page galleys for Unavailable, it suddenly struck me just what I was putting out there. A window into my darkest moments, an unobstructed view of my alcoholism and drug addiction, a not too pretty picture of a hedonistic life I’d been living for some time.
Much of my emotional life has been scarred by a marked fear of what other people think of me. And now, even bits of my sex life are boldly typed among the pages of Unavailable. Can I trust that the readers will believe I have changed? Does it matter?
Of course now, the book is out there. Being read, consumed, judged. Am I being judged alongside it?
So now I wax philosophical on the vulnerability of the memoir author. The nakedness of my activity, the opaqueness of my vivacity.