I was having a catch up with my high school friend, Kristen, when she mentioned she was reading my memoir. I have to confess: I cringe a little when I hear that. I have a complicated relationship with my first book. It’s hard not to critique what I wrote then through the lens of who I am now. All of the passages I could have written better jump out at me, even as I try to give myself the grace to be OK with the book as it is. After all, you’re supposed to improve at whatever you do. What’s the alternative? To get worse? But the perfectionist in me hates that there’s something out there that I could have done better, even as I know I will one day feel the same way about what I write today.
But more than the quality of the writing, I worry that the book just seems vapid, particularly against the backdrop of our dystopian present. When I think about the period of time that is quickly becoming the last decade, it seems trite that I once waxed poetic about Le Creuset cookware and how a runny polenta ruined my week.
Like all good friends do, she assured me this wasn’t the case while also letting me know that she understood. When she reads through her own old journals, she comes across much that sends her into a shame spiral, she confided. But she also knows it was who she was at that moment, reacting to the life experiences she had - and hadn’t had - at the time. Just like “Recipes for Disaster Tess” was celebrating the fact that she finally had enough financial stability doing something she loved to afford a quality Dutch oven in a decorative color, my friend’s younger self was falling in love for the first time, with all that entails. It was as she aptly put it, “her whole personality.”
Much as I would like to say I walked away from the exchange full of compassion and forgiveness for my younger self, we all know that would be a lie.
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