I’m from the Land of Honest Abe so let’s talk about honesty. About a zillion people (okay, that’s a lie) have commented to me about how honest I am in my memoir. Adjectives like painfully and cringe-worthy are often included. I find these responses somewhat curious because 1. Aren’t memoirs supposed to be filled with honest stuff? and 2. Just what’d I write that’s so unexpectedly, painfully, cringe-worthy honest?
Yes, there’s the page describing Randy’s colored briefs and I do devote an entire chapter to my humiliating job stint in ladies television but neither subject is tabloid material. No aliens or diet tips were involved. My friend of 25 years Liz read the book and said, “I had no idea how insecure you are.” I had no idea the book made me seem insecure. Doesn’t every woman worry about her butt when her boyfriend’s watching her bowl? Who hasn’t debated saying I love you to somebody who hasn’t already said it first?
I write assuming nobody’s ever going to read what I’m saying…that’s what keeps me from getting nervous about what other people think. I consider this a major accomplishment because for eons I worried non-stop about other people’s opinions. It would have been better-than-swell to get through 7th grade without agonizing over my hairdo or who said what to whom at what time and how it affected meeeeeee. I might have been more productive as an adult if I didn’t focus on the same rigamarole. (I maintain that life is just a loop of reliving 7th grade.) But now if I want opinions I turn on the nightly news. And if I make an observation about something, anything, I’ll probably throw it out there. The worst that can happen is somebody reads what I wrote and responds to it, and hey, I can live with that. Honest.