I gave my book to my partner before I gave it to my parents, figuring it was better to conquer one gut-churning fear at a time. I refused to watch him read it, but I was aware when he reached the scene where the protagonist meets a figure sculptor with a buzz cut. “It’s not you,” I said quickly, with hauteur and also panic.Article continues after advertisement
“What? I know it’s not me. It’s a novel.”
I relaxed very slightly. After all, most of the character’s details do not match my partner’s real life. For example, he does not live in a shack in the woods like a hermit. But then he reached the scene where my protagonist visits her apartment in West Philadelphia and said, “Is this my apartment?”
“…Yeah.”
I felt that I had done my loved ones a disservice. And worst of all, I also felt that I had done it in service of The Work, and if I had the choice, I would do it over again.
