Each of us is a memoirist.
To be a writer in this moment seems to mean a certain divestment of privacy. For instance: the critic who doesn’t pretend to infallible authority, but instead uses the vulnerable, personal “I.” This means judging with an inevitably incomplete, misfit understanding.
This isn’t news. It isn’t meant to be. I’m no Cassandra, and as crises go, this would rank pretty low. I’m just an under-employed college grad with few abilities beyond a certain facility with words. It makes some sense to follow my strengths, and I don’t have much else happening. So, ten years behind the times, here’s my blog. I’ll be posting whatever I feel like, including but not limited to: poetry, short stories, and personal rants. There might be a picture once in a while; who can say. I hope to see you around, and I hope you enjoy.
No, you’re right, the title is terrible.
illiterate.lies 