In July of 2017 after a year and more of fits and starts, I finally self published, through Amazon, a piece of fiction. I call it a piece of fiction but I also recognize that it is a thinly veiled memoir and true story. I had no worries, which I find a bit perplexing now. Want to know more?
The Aug 20 issue of The New Yorker featured as its fiction story A Refugee Crisis by Callan Wink. It is a story written in the first person by a supposed fictional writer. But, at least for this reader, it seemed autobiographical of Wink. Be that as it may, the fictional writer makes a statement about writing fiction that, as a first time self published author, really resonated with me.
He said, "Increasingly, it seems to me that fiction is the most shameless genre. It makes no attempt to avert its lying face. In fact, it does the opposite - putting its dishonesty on display and tying to make a virtue out of it. Every morning at the keyboard, I lie, cheat, and steal, and then, after I close the computer, I go about my day disingenuously presenting myself to the friends and lovers whose lives I've plundered for my own ends."
When I wrote and published 2017, "Isabelle's Upstairs Coffee Shop" a friend advised me to make it non-fiction. I didn't want to. Did I want to lie? Did I want to hide? Did I think no one would read it if it wasn't fiction? I really don't know, but I do know that in spite of having just read The Confidence Code by Katty Kay & Claire Shipman, a book that should have empowered me to just shake it off, look out the windshield instead of the rear view mirror, and refuse to ruminate, I did a fair amount of second guessing and experiencing writers remorse as soon as I pushed "publish" on the publishing platform I was using. Two years later, I still do. I still waffle between feeling good for checking "write a book someday" from my list of life's goals and regret for having done so.
I think a lot about ethics. I've never thought much about it from the writers perspective. Until now.




