I recently read two books written by people I know. (It's cool. I'm fine! I love the choices I've made and that I expend my creative energy tweeting on behalf of a corporation.) The first, a collection of essays, was by a friend with whom I share not one but two alma maters: our performing… Continue reading writers: they’re just like us!
I approach anything that's not, e.g., reading Proust with a keening sense of shame and thus never learn to do it properly. The trouble is that I've also never read Proust, either, putting me in this liminal space where I have neither Instagram followers nor highfalutin lit-bro cred.
I have thought often since then about where the boundaries lie between what's mine and what's fair for me to talk about and what secrets belong to the people who shape me.