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I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a memoir for some time. When I talk about my past, people (many, many, many people) tell me I should write a book. I’ve written two (what I would consider) publishable fiction novels. I have tried on three separate, legitimate, occasions to have them published. The first two times, I received blatant rejections. The third, I actually was asked to see the whole novel, then turned down because the publishing house experienced budget cuts. The letter read, “If you had submitted this a year ago, I would have been able to work with it, but now they are wanting submissions that need virtually no editing to work within our budget and timeframe.” I considered that a soft rejection. The letter encouraged me to keep on trying because it had a good story and a strong voice.

I am a writer. I know, as a writer, one needs a thick degree of skin to make it. After each attempt, I’ve taken a period of sinking-in, a hiatus of sorts, to rebuild my confidence. And, now, I’m back on the horse that threw me… my novels are out there, inviting, again, to be published.

Writing a memoir requires a different degree of thick skin. While the line between writing fiction and non-fiction, for me, is a thin one (floss-like), with fiction, I can write based on my experiences, but they can be hidden behind the mask of imagination. A memoir requires bravery. Putting my experiences out there, raw and blemished, is a leap of faith that I have decided to take and hope to rise like a phoenix, enriched and triumphantly satisfied.

I am tentatively calling this memoir Unfriendly Mirror. I will publish excerpts of it here.

Judge me kindly but honestly. I value your response.

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