I done got me a graduate degree in the Fine Art of Creative Writing, y'all. Lesley University is my new alma mater. So at this moment, I'm indulging in some hefty feelings of pride. Go with it. I'm pretty sure it's temporary seeing as my particular brand of living has a lot to do with a perpetual drive to self-improve that's born of insecurity, a dizzying competitive nature, and a reckless confidence that I blame on my kickass parents.
My particular field? It's creative nonfiction. So I like to think of myself as a resourceful truth-teller. My stories—we nonfictionaters call them essays—are tales of truth. Oh, but not just any truth—the "truth" is as I see it. I've spent the last two years learning from my professors and from my fellow students how to use facts as I understand them to tell a story as I want to tell it.
So here's what that could mean: It could mean that wronging me is a bad idea. (Hasn't it always been?) I write nonfiction. About my own life. And my style? Well, it has a lot to do with poking fun. Poking fun at me. Poking fun at others. Poking fun at situations and styles and systems that intrigue or piss me off.
Generally, I take my personal history and interactions and I immortalize the shit out of 'em through what I've been convinced is some rather clever use of words. And my life events of late have given me the kind of material of which I could see myself making really good use. Just in case, I should probably make sure I've got notes. And if not notes, that I've got a bunch of people around me with good memories and loyalties that are appropriately aligned.
Yeah, check and check, bichis.