I’ve been writing about myself for six years, on and off, in between writing and publishing a book on Bill Moss’ designs. I abhor it. Getting to my writing studio and sitting down to work is a raging battle with procrastination. This is not about writing. I feel the most whole when I’m writing. Except about me. The keyboard might as well be a hot griddle. I move my fingers as fast as I can to get through. To get finished. To get on with something else, a more interesting subject or a biography. My editor says to “slow down…add more detail…peel back the layers,” to which I obediently and respectfully comply. But with adversion. Writing or talking about myself is not in my nature. I would much rather hear or write other people’s stories.
Don’t most of us have a propensity to be captivated by suffering kindred spirits? So when I came upon a book titled, Why We Write About Ourselves, a compilation of personal essays by published memoirists, I ordered it immediately for next day delivery. I was certain I would find at least one writer in this group with whom I could resonate in this arduous process.