I’ve read all of the memoirs. The more deviant and fucked up the better. For a long time, I hated the last 30 pages of most; the part where the protagonist gets better. I prefered an ambiguous ending; I could relate to that more. Where, even with family support and 3 rehabs, you’re not quite sure the soccer mom meth head made it to publication without a relapse or two. Not because I wish that, but because it feels more personally relatable. I don’t know where I’ll be or how I’ll be on any given day in the future, and I appreciate that kind of authenticity from other people. Y’all, this latest memoir I’m on page 87 of is amazing.
Katie Heaney is the most honest, balls out author I’ve read in years. Some of the things she describes feeling, the informality of her confessions just makes my heart warm. Like, someone out there fucking gets it. We’ve lived largely dissimilar lives but I wish I could give her a soul hug of thanks; for going into writing, making damn sure her voice got out there and for having the guts not to sugarcoat anything. I mean, we know women are warrior goddesses, but some of these young female writers undeniably prove this (in case you need reminding):
One of the topics she touches on is how you can write something, be 100% behind it, have it reflect everything you’re feeling/thinking/exploring/ruminating on at the moment, and then, later, it can be cringe. Um, yeah, I fiercely feel that. About my poetry, about this blog, about half the texts I send. For a while, KH felt that way about the first memoir she wrote, Never Have I Ever. I commend the way she cut herself open and unapologetically confronted the truth of that experience. I wish I could say more, but I’m not even halfway through. She has single handedly made me rethink my own level of honesty and transparency, both in writing and in the rest of life.