People have asked me how can writers, especially memoirists, write about their lives, opening up closets, sharing pains, and exposing themselves to the public in such thorough and exquisite fashions.
I’ve pondered this some.
First, we don’t “think” about “exposure” when we’re busy writing.
Second, if we are the sums of love, loss, joys, and sorrows, could our stories be so different? And if our intentions are pure, wherein lies the shame?