Figuring It Out

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about sending my work out. To, you know… potentially be published. I’m confident in my ability to write, revise, etc—the problem being this fear that my family will read and be offended by my interpretation of the truth. Joan Didion said, “Writers are always selling somebody out--”
and it is true, in my correct or incorrect version of Things That Happened in My Life I am going to be joyful, pained, and inevitably hurtful.

I have a friend who publishes nonfiction under a pen name, and while I’ve toyed with that idea, it is, for me, dishonest. My pen name, I think, would be something vaguely reminiscent of the authors of drugstore romance novels, and while the pseudonym appeals to my sense of humor, it doesn’t suit my writing. I write openly and as myself. I do not change names. I admit when there is a potential inaccuracy, and I do not share my work with my family.

Except for the time I did—and my mom felt like a bad mother. My sister felt sad and mildly under-victimized, which is sort of her thing. I don’t know why I worry—say I did get published—my family does not read. Unless I submit to and am accepted by Guns and Ammo or People (which is unlikely since I do not hunt and am unfamiliar with most celebrities) my work would go unrecognized, which is perhaps the problem.