Maybe, I thought, it’s the method rather than the madness.
Every time I sat down with my ninety-nine cents of promise, I came up blank; ditto for a vast white screen on either computer. I had ideas. Why weren’t they flowing?
So I tried other ways. I wrote the beginnings of fiction in an email to myself, as if I could collaborate with me. I used the improbable second-person to tell my own stories, and did not dwell on what a memoir ought to be.
You wouldn’t believe how well those little shifts have worked.