To my one-star reviewer—it’s a good thing you stopped when you did. There is a lot more in my memoir (aside from just the introduction you couldn’t get past because of the “cussing”) to be offended by, because lots of offensive shit has happened in my life.
What anyone experiences while reading, and digesting, my book (aka me) has hardly anything to do with me. But it has everything to do with their life experiences and every little thing that makes them who they are, and I have about as much control over that as I do the person themselves.
I started writing shit I remembered about my life. The fucked up shit. The hard-to-talk-about shit. The funny shit. The sad shit. The embarrassing shit. The shit I was ashamed of. All of it. I printed them out and saved them in a folder. This would also be the case with journal entries, thoughts on napkins, ideas scribbled on hotel notepads…you get the idea.
I was days away from hitting the PUBLISH button on my book, for both the print and e-version. I’d talked to everyone I could think of, emailed, and texted anyone who would listen but something just wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, something felt off.
Do you even exist without a profile? Without followers? Without sharing your every thought and action multiple times a day? Can you be certain you’re growing as a conscious human, aware and in the know about societal issues, if you’re not present? If you’re not posting your values, thoughts, and self-growth, then how can you prove you’re “doing the work?”
As soon as Ronnie and I pulled into the driveway, I saw a vehicle with Massachusetts plates. My immediate thought was, fuck.