It was my cousin on the phone. The call I yearned for, and dreaded.
Yearned with that vulnerability of memoirists when praise is heard not simply for one’s book but also as a response to an unspoken plea: love me.
Dreaded because she had made it clear that she had hated my earlier memoir: “I nearly died when I read it.”
And this is what every memoirist fears: that our books will hurt someone so deeply that the wound will be fatal.
Love and death were the stakes in this phone call,...Forward