Let’s say throughout my twenties, all I did—literally—was write; whatever I could, in hopes my parents might read it, see me, grow up, and care. Let’s say throughout my twenties, I published three books in three genres and each time, my life got significantly worse. When book #1 came out, my father stopped speaking to me. Book #2, I remember; but I don’t want to. And by the time book #3 released, I was beginning the earth-shattering acceptance that I had to separate myself from my mother.Article continues after advertisement
This is the first essay I’ve written in three years. I couldn’t stomach the thought of starting another sentence with the world “I.” So let’s say, as an essayist, memoirist, and poet, I developed an immense panic around publishing and correlated the entire process to loss; ready to quit the writing life I’d dedicated my entire adulthood to. And as a last hoorah, I did the one thing I thought I’d never do. Make shit up. I knew if I had to write, whatever I made next had to be so far removed from myself that I couldn’t even reminiscence on my own sentiments.
At the very beginnings of the story, my novel followed a family. A throuple, raising children together. I’m an only child, with no children, who lived alone and had never been in a relationship. This was good. This was perfect. I was far away. Initially, I thought the throuple would be a part of an erotic story collection, for imagination purposes. Then, I wanted it to be a romance, because money.
