When people hear details of my life, almost without exception they suggest I write my story. After all, you are a writer nelle, they tell me; why not share with the world? Left unsaid is the sum of the details is rather unusual, enthralling and not mundane.
My answer is always the same, and it will ever be so. I’m not writing my story. I may draw on it here and there *in fiction* but I’m not writing an unabridged or even a concise abridged version.
For several reasons. First, unsolicited, once I started in on this writing thing, I wrote my children and told them I will never write this story. Would you make a promise to your children and intentionally break that promise, when there is nothing for motivation but self-aggrandisement, the feeding of my ego? I think not.
Second, it may seem interesting to others, but I lived the life; it didn’t feel interesting, it felt like life, and struggling to live that life. Yes, there were times it sucked, particularly in high school, or in the down or alone times when gender rose up out of etherea like some spectral whale itching to swallow me whole. Read that as nightly, for headed into sleep, no matter how close another may be…with gender dysphoria you are still alone, because we are alone with our thoughts and thoughts are free to explore. I think of it now as some sort of systems evaluation. Somewhere in the control room of my brain, the operator looks at various essential systems, getting green lights on all, except for one chronic flashing red: the indicator for synchronisation of physical sex and gender. There is conflict afoot mucking up the works.
Third, as alone as the issue might make me, I don’t exist in a vacuum. If that sounds contradictory, it doesn’t feel so. I’m a parent of wonderful daughters, was married for moons and moons, I’m a daughter, an aunt, a sister, and soon to be a grandmother. I have friends who are dear. They and others were impacted, in some cases hurt, significantly so by me and the doings in my life. I have a duty, an obligation, not to drag all of the detritus out for all to stare at, while reaping a potential profit, however modest.
The fourth is personal. I’m a writer, and what I wish to write, selfishly enough, is fiction – fabrications of my mind. Writers draw on experience, writers draw on what they observe, what interests them, their outlook on life, and the doings of our world. Those writings are what I wish to share with the public, where my voice sheds energy by transforming it into word. One on one with those I love is my forum for the private historical stuff.
Some of you know details, and that is how I prefer to share my story, not via a marketing campaign hawking the published version.