Yes, the furor over Julie Myerson’s decision to write about her drug-addicted abusive son.
I’m for it.
Mainly because it gets me thinking. Will my son’s Nintendo addiction mutate into skunk addiction?
I’m completely serious, but the way.
I blog about my children but I avoid the less salutary. Like the little accidents someone in my house makes that has me tossing whole packs of underpants into the garbage. Oops, was that too private?
Of course, I don’t have real dirt yet. My kids haven’t hit puberty and its gateway into parent/teenager hell. And I don’t think I would divulge any real horror. That’s why I’m a fiction writer.
But I’m thankful somebody wrote about the dangers of dope. I, for one, will be keeping a very close eye on it all and will not be lenient about its use. So thanks for warning me, Julie.
So is there a greater good being performed by her airing all her family’s laundry? I think yes.
Is it at the kid’s expense? Definitely.
But writers are not nice. We might smile, we might even offer to clean up occasionally. But deep down we are predators. The reason we are so interested in you is that it fuels our need for stories. We are vampires. Every sorry pathological thought of yours, we take note.
Feeling depressed? Tell us all about it.
Not sure what to do about your husband? We’re all ears.
Just lost your sibling in a horrific accident? How awful, we’ll murmur, reaching for the notebook in our bag. Tell us, how exactly did it happen?
Of course, novelists have it easier. We change the names and genders and hair color. And keep on smiling.
photo by Mahyar (flickr)