I think every author has kicked around the idea of starting on an autobiography. I’m no exception to that. Hell, I am a narcissist. Even the parts of my life I’m somewhat certain have happened are largely unbelievable.
The writer of my life is definitely a fan of cliché and needless suffering, as I’ve discovered lately. It’s true, I’ve known deep joys. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in a few ways. I’ve been able to medically transition, I’ve lived in a hotel in a tourist city for years, drank champagne on rooftops, watched the sunset from a mountaintop, I’ve met Anne-fucking-Rice, I’ve written books that are so far well-received (By all six people that have read them), and I’ve known some of the most delightful people I will ever meet.
But I’ve definitely had misfortune serve a worthy counterweight. Manipulation, sexually, physical, psychological abuse, the droves of abusive, compulsive liars I’ve known. The droves of liars I’ve trusted.
And also. I don’t think I’m real. I certainly am not who has always been in this body. I don’t know if some of my friends, enemies, or partners are real. You could be standing right in front of me and I couldn’t tell whether or not I’ve made you up. This is the result of years and years worth of loneliness and a very specific type of abuse.
It may as well do me a favour and help my damned career.