If I told you I am writing a memoir, it would not be a lie. And I have perhaps told you this before and then forgotten it, repressed it, just like many of my experiences that will never fit coherent form of story. So each time I return to it, I remember it like it is new. Because it is (it is not new, I have been writing it for more than a year). Because this is the only way my stories will ever find their way into existence outside of my body, in pieces. Because this is the truth of a story like mine. There is too much fragmented that to tell it any other way would be dishonouring of it. To even go through the writing process in any other way, would be forcing my story into a life that is not mine. And so I will never write it consistently, never with beginning, middle and end, never wrapped up in the neat bow of redemption or inspiration-porn. And because my life is, well, my life, imperfect and messy and complex beyond complexity's meaning, it will possibly never be finished, and even if I reach completion of this particular manuscript, it will likely not be written in the kind of voice or narrative that is most often required of storytelling to make it very far reaching. But then this is exactly what it will always be, and if it ever sees anyone's eyes other than my own, and it might not, it will likely be for the one's whose stories are just as splintered and fractured and wholly in pieces as mine.
But sometimes, tonight, if I told you I am writing a memoir, it would not be a lie.