‘J’ for “Justifications”
I’m insecure that I seem too young and inexperienced to be writing a memoir. I’m afraid my opinions are trite, my observations narrow, my philosophies shaped by the upper middle class pleasure cruise that has been my life. I’ve darted around this issue by telling people—and myself—that I am instead writing “a collection of essays” or “narrative non-fiction stories.”
But that’s about as convincing a justification as saying you put on your high school Dance Line uniform occasionally because it’s “vintage.” Here’s the truth: you do it because it feels good, and if you don’t do it from time to time it feels like something’s missing (you’d be forgiven for putting it on because it still smells faintly of the bonfire from the last home game, the one where you let Beau Bentley drive you home even though he had a girlfriend—Avatar cologne on his neck, “Little Red Corvette” on the radio).
It’s the same feeling with writing memoir. I love talking about my life like I love drinking a lemon fizz after a long day thrifting. Call me a narcissist, but that’s just how it is.
Even though I’m young and healthy, there’s a chance I could die and so I want to be sure there exists something of my thoughts and ideas on life. So when I’m insecure I have nothing important to say, I think of what one of my writing mentors Chris Coake said to me: “There are only a few stories out there to tell, it’s all about how you tell it.” And I’ve lived on this earth, and I’ve felt love and pain and loss and friendship. So I believe I have something worth saying. I’m aware these super self-conscious ramblings (and of course the footnotes) might bring people to say I’m trying to be like Dave Eggers. Well, fine. Call me Daisy Egret if you want. He’s a badass, AHBWOSG rocks, and I’ve been called worse things.
