It’s not the same thing as a bio. I struggle to write bios. I guess I would be lying if I said that I didn’t struggle to write stories too.
But I’m actually excited to write my story. I’ve been writing them all my life, and I’m wondering how they all fit together.
Here’s what I know, bare bones: I was born in Tampa, Florida. My parents had major ups and downs financially and that affected the marriage and the kids. I remember lurching over and sobbing into my closed fists in the passenger seat of my friend’s car in Gainesville and screaming I HATE THIS TOWN.
And since then, I feel that I’ve only bounced around. There were the jardin tours of gay Paris, the long Amtrak rides to queer Appalachia, so many interiors in New York City as I went from flophouse to collective house to being the live-in help.
Memories pressed tightly against each other in an ever-moving train. Though it doesn’t matter where it’s going. All that matters is what can be seen out the window. The landscape and the serrated sky, the languid horizon, the sun as it disappears over the tallest and blackest hill, winking as if it knows your whole story … in pictures and miles and flowers and blood.