On the nature of secrets... As a spinner of fictional yarns, I have a certain obligation to put a lot of myself in my work. It's at once the most intimate and the most lonesome profession. My secrets are a mix-and-match grab bag: after all, one must write what one knows, but what of other people's stories and experiences and secrets? I'm not talking about people who had the experiences with me personally; it's not the old "If they didn't want you to write about them, they should have been nicer" thing. I'm more focused on people who I know of in my real life and the secrets they hold. How much of an obligation do I have to protect them, and come to that, can they seek reparations should I publish? What must I do to protect myself, to keep from alienating those I would call my friends or even family? The sins of my mother or father should be up for grabs, but what of my sister-in-law? The people I meet on the bus? The teenage half-sister of someone I used to date being in a bad situation and using drugs and cutting as a way to try to escape? She didn't ask to be abused or to have her story told, but I feel that if I don't say something to somebody, nothing will ever improve. And then there's the idea that some people can't see the truth for the words, the forest for the trees: people don't want to know, especially when it's close to home, personal, or just plain bad news.
I am catalyst and disaster. I am the narrator. I see everything, and that is my curse.