I forgot who I’m writing for

In the beginning was the word, and the word was for me…

Blasphemy!

Yes, that was for me, too.

The first book I published was intended to be satire, but was such a mix of irreverence and serious anger that it didn’t come through. I am not Kafka. I am just a vile creature protesting vile things.

And then my mom read it.

And reported how many cuss words were in it.

After which, I also recognized how much violence was in it. Like, violence and gore and sex and violent gory sex.

I promptly vowed never to hand another book over to my mother.

Moral of the story: in the beginning I wrote for me, because I was going through things and in the process of being removed from the church, and I hand pent-up questions going all the way back to age eight when I was told not to question things.*

*Not told by my parents. My parents questioned much and had good answers; I simply didn’t understand most of it until I was older.

Moral of the goddamn story?

I forgot I was writing for me. Forgot the ‘me’ in the story mattered at all. It’s a weird place to be. These stories began because I questioned God and Authority and Society, and then I got bogged down, and forgot that maybe the questions still mattered.

You know what? Chances are, they don’t. I am not a great mind in a great generation. We’re all trying to figure this out, to balance the wisdom that came before with the soul-sucking mantras we sell our freedom to now.