Can writing your story save your life?
I should have come with a manual. My parents thought they were getting one thing when they adopted me—a baby of their own—when what they got was a human being with a story of her own.
As a child, I traded safety for silence.
As an adult, I had no idea who I was, why I quit nearly everything I started, why I struggled with things that came more easily to my friends (jobs, relationships, finances, self-esteem), why I seemed hell-bent on throwing myself away.
It got to the point where I didn’t care if telling my story was going to kill me: I was going to find a way to tell it, because living a life that felt like a lie was unbearable.
In order to write this book, I moved away from everything I knew, maxed out my credit cards, borrowed from friends and family, had lots of sex with strangers. Nearly penniless, I was living like a millionaire in the apartment of a fabulously famous writer. I was finally listening to my own voice. I ate cheesecake for dinner and fell in love with the East Village. I broke almost every rule I ran into because I was afraid this kind of freedom couldn’t go on forever. As I wrote, I lived every day as if it were my last.
I was in for such a surprise.
I wrote this book in 93 days. If I can do it, anyone can.
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I have the best job in the world. I get to think of things I’d like to hear about, and then I get to listen to word musicians, word magicians, word kings and queens read what they conjured up in a minuscule amount of time.