Great article by Daniel Mendelsohn

A small portion of a larger article written by Daniel Mendelsohn of The New Yorker, entitled, "The History of Memoirs." This article details the history of the memoir and why, in most cases, these "truths" writers claim to be telling aren't in fact truths at all. They are "a truth," but not "the truth." See the full article here:

Once the memoir stopped being about God and started being about Man, once “confession” came to mean nothing more than getting a shameful secret off your chest—and, maybe worse, once “redemption” came to mean nothing more than the cozy acceptance offered by other people, many of whom might well share the same secret—it was but a short step to what the Times book critic Michiko Kakutani recently characterized as the motivating force behind certain other products of the recent “memoir craze”:

“the belief that confession is therapeutic and therapy is redemptive and redemption somehow equals art.”

But Enough About Me

Creative Writing Assignment

I do not deserve these faces to look upon me and see something that I've never seen within myself.

I can't force myself to imagine what they would do if they knew the side of me that I despise and can't run from.

The dark, pitted hole within oneself that churns away like a soft supple butter to only mask the wave of nausea brought on by the embarrassment and pain.

But perhaps at certain times I guess they do see that side of me; that of which I can't and won't necessarily elaborate on for it is not at all to be used in some form of amusement to you.

And so then, if they have seen that side, where is the pain that is missing from their faces, yet is ever so present in mine?

Good people I believe are people who should be spoken about.

Brought up in most worthwhile discussions in order to paint a picture of a face that is so unique and intriguing it only adds a human touch to an otherwise cliche story.

There are a few good people I have met in my life that I feel are worthy of ever talking about.

As for the rest, I wish to block you forever. You've done with me what you wanted, I've learned what I can from your experiences and interactions with me and as far as I'm concerned, that's all I will ever and can ever take from meeting you.

The good ones, the really, truly stunning and inspiring ones have caught my heart and the very essence of my soul in a way that has never been.

Growth has sprung from me and every day it is a new growth that takes place gulping for any chance of a new experience with them, until that donning darkness comes.

I believe now though that when in the right company, darkness can hold a gentle hand; it can feel.

The one with the sunflower hair and fair skin that is popped by enormous dew drop eyes and wild black poppy brows looks at me in a dark hour. The point in which I was speaking of before, when that ugly side within myself has shown it's rearing head.

She says sweetly and ashamed, "You know me. I'm not good at comforting people or saying the right things when someone needs me too. I'm sorry."

Pain behind her eyes because she can't help me. Not because of what I had done, but because she honestly and truly felt bad for not being able to comfort.

I do not deserve someone thinking about comforting me, let alone, someone who feels bad because they can't but want to.

Did I break? Did you see it there, in that moment of silence when my eyes opened up like french doors to show you the horrible side of me? The sort of gray, fuzzy, sticky side to me that I know is there? Did you? Were you let in to the scary depths of my entirety that ever presently resembles Dante's venture into the electrifying Inferno?