Stories are a kind of thing, too. Stories and objects share something, a patina. I thought I had this clear, two years ago before I started, but I am no longer sure how this works. Perhaps a patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed, the way that a striated stone tumbled in a river feels irreducible, the way that this netsuke of a fox has become little more than a memory of a nose and a tail.
Edmund de Waal, The Hare with the Amber Eyes
My story, unlike a work of fiction, has no clear narrative. I weave my story the way I have experienced my own life. It does not reflect my personality; it is my personality. In what I show, and what I conceal, the important parts of my psychology are revealed.
I have tried to be as true to reality as possible. Integrating facts and events. But how I have picked them apart and knitted them together creates its own meaning. This is my life’s story and the knowledge I have gained over the last twenty-five years but unlike most novels, my life story is a work in progress.