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Slice of Real Life
Autobiographical Essays
Aside from my fiction writing, I have been published in several anthologies, both locally and nationally, and I have written autobiographical essays for literary collections. So over a long career as a writer, essayist, and editor, I do want to separate myself (the writer, the narrator) from the stories I have created from my imaginiation. I want to clear up any misconception my readers might have that the fiction I write is someone based on "me" in any real way. I readily admit that all of me is in my fiction, but one cannot help but bring oneself to bear on everything one does in life. But I am not Tom, Joel, Will, Douglas, Kelly, or for that matter Eva, Mackenzie, Sally, Edna, nor Sudha from my novels. I made one mistake in my first novel and that was changing the name in the novel from the real town upon which it was based. It was a stupid way to try to hide or protect the real town from the one in my first novel. That mistake has rippled through my writing from the foundattion to the roofline, as my father used to say of a half-inch mistake at the bottom of a house would follow all the way to the top and become a half-foot issue at the roof. In writing, as in carpentry, one should measure twice and cut once.
In this collection of autobiographical essays, I have sought to show the real me, using my real name, and laying the blame squarely at my feet for any stupid things I may have done in real life. I have noticed that being a popular novelist does not necessarily garner interest in the story of my life. Novelists are not like acting celebreties or sports stars, where fans want to know as much about actors and sports figures as they know about their movie roles and their on-field play. Writers hide in the shadows and readers may simply not want to know anyting much about the writer herself.
But I think I've got some interesting stories to tell in this collection that, while I am in the story, the story is still a story about other "characters" interesting places, and actual conflicts-lots and lots of conflict. How about the time I worked on a goat ranch for a couple of gay men who raised goats in northern New Mexico (as best they could, because they both had AIDS and both had suffered ARC and were just trying to hang on and live as mutually sopportive friends in a place I can only think of a kind of paradise, which is why I called that essay "AIDS in Paradise." That is not my story; it's their story. I was only there two weeks and it was enough. I have never forgotten either of these two young men who long ago succombed to the disease, as this was fairly early on in the AIDS pandemic with no cures and little mitigation.
I write about my parents who were both ill at the same time and quite near the end of their lives when I moved back home to be with them. I call their essay "The Healing Place," a home they created that actually took in people at various times in various lives and when they were healed they moved on. What worked for those my parents helped did not necessarily work for them. Neither of them made it out of the twentieth century, but of course that also means that neither of them saw the twin towers in NYC come down, nor the decay of our democratic processes and the attempted coup of our government by the fearul white supremacist minority.
I've given myself permission to add to this collection of essays as I see fit, and this particular edition has undergone at least some revision and addition since the first edition back in 2016. Please enjoy!
Autobiographical Essays
Aside from my fiction writing, I have been published in several anthologies, both locally and nationally, and I have written autobiographical essays for literary collections. So over a long career as a writer, essayist, and editor, I do want to separate myself (the writer, the narrator) from the stories I have created from my imaginiation. I want to clear up any misconception my readers might have that the fiction I write is someone based on "me" in any real way. I readily admit that all of me is in my fiction, but one cannot help but bring oneself to bear on everything one does in life. But I am not Tom, Joel, Will, Douglas, Kelly, or for that matter Eva, Mackenzie, Sally, Edna, nor Sudha from my novels. I made one mistake in my first novel and that was changing the name in the novel from the real town upon which it was based. It was a stupid way to try to hide or protect the real town from the one in my first novel. That mistake has rippled through my writing from the foundattion to the roofline, as my father used to say of a half-inch mistake at the bottom of a house would follow all the way to the top and become a half-foot issue at the roof. In writing, as in carpentry, one should measure twice and cut once.
In this collection of autobiographical essays, I have sought to show the real me, using my real name, and laying the blame squarely at my feet for any stupid things I may have done in real life. I have noticed that being a popular novelist does not necessarily garner interest in the story of my life. Novelists are not like acting celebreties or sports stars, where fans want to know as much about actors and sports figures as they know about their movie roles and their on-field play. Writers hide in the shadows and readers may simply not want to know anyting much about the writer herself.
But I think I've got some interesting stories to tell in this collection that, while I am in the story, the story is still a story about other "characters" interesting places, and actual conflicts-lots and lots of conflict. How about the time I worked on a goat ranch for a couple of gay men who raised goats in northern New Mexico (as best they could, because they both had AIDS and both had suffered ARC and were just trying to hang on and live as mutually sopportive friends in a place I can only think of a kind of paradise, which is why I called that essay "AIDS in Paradise." That is not my story; it's their story. I was only there two weeks and it was enough. I have never forgotten either of these two young men who long ago succombed to the disease, as this was fairly early on in the AIDS pandemic with no cures and little mitigation.
I write about my parents who were both ill at the same time and quite near the end of their lives when I moved back home to be with them. I call their essay "The Healing Place," a home they created that actually took in people at various times in various lives and when they were healed they moved on. What worked for those my parents helped did not necessarily work for them. Neither of them made it out of the twentieth century, but of course that also means that neither of them saw the twin towers in NYC come down, nor the decay of our democratic processes and the attempted coup of our government by the fearul white supremacist minority.
I've given myself permission to add to this collection of essays as I see fit, and this particular edition has undergone at least some revision and addition since the first edition back in 2016. Please enjoy!
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