I’m writing a memoir. I have been trained to think that’s self-indulgent and nauseating, but I’ve also been trained to hate myself because I’m a woman. I have figured out the latter is bullshit, so fuck it. I’m writing a memoir.

It is much harder than writing fiction.

True, fiction demands a higher level of engagement upfront: You have to figure out your characters, your plot, your narrative arc. But once you’re jamming, you can pretty much throw whatever sauce you want on the spaghetti. It’s fun to keep writing your characters in the face of new challenges that change them, but still leave them utterly, unmistakably themselves.

Writing memoir demands a different set of skills. I am prone to writing badly, and it’s quite easy to write badly when recounting what happened. Facts, facts, summary. Dull! Plus I have opinions about things. So many opinions. Too many opinions. (Husband: I’m sorry.) In any case, recounting facts and opinions is not creating emotion though action.

Writing memoir has warped the crap out of my brain. I have begun to deeply probe my actions, my beliefs, and the gaps between what I think I do and what I actually do. This is a big paraphrase, but Mary Karr advises to be gentle to others and go hard on the self. Writing memoir is all about self-accountability. This lens doesn’t go away when I step away from the computer.

But also, there is honesty and grace. To know oneself, to really embrace the warty self, brings a feeling of freedom and compassion. Isn’t it strange to be human? To have these flaws? To persevere anyway?