I have been writing for this site for about three years now. Longer, if you count my time freelance writing as Elizabeth “The Misanthropologist” Richard, who most of you probably don’t remember. But we’ll get to her in a second.
The Gloss has been a lot of things in my time here–back in 2010, it was a lot snarkier, meaner, and a little less body positive. It’s become something more pro-lady, while at the same time maintaining its irreverent tone. It’s also shown a greater emphasis on longform first person essays–when I first showed up, it was all high volume, 8-10 posts a day about various fashion things. That transitioned into something with more personal essays and the corresponding photos of authors of those essays.
…Which presented a huge problem for me, because I dislike writing about myself.
Which brings me to my first point: my first book just came out. It’s a comedic essay collection. It is also a memoir. Loyal readers may be surprised by this. I sure as shit am. Moreover, the book is a sex memoir–maybe not quite in the usual sense one gets when hearing that–but it’s a memoir about my sexual development all the same. Which I’m still trying to wrap my head around.
It’s surprising to me for a couple of reasons. Part of that is wariness at good old fashioned hubris; what kind of asshole writes a memoir in her mid-20s when she has lived in no discernibly interesting way? (Cynical readers may here say, “A lot. A lot of assholes.”) I dislike that aspect–and I have no substantial charge against the criticism. I wrote about myself. I’m young. I’m “another white girl living in Brooklyn” writing about my stupid life. For those of you upset by this, let me extend my sincerest apologies.
Also–and this is the bigger one–I am deeply, neurotically private and up until getting the book deal, I avoided writing personal stuff wherever possible. Gloss readers know that, even when required to post a selfie, I usually prefer to obscure my face and shy away from publishing any sort of personal anecdotes on the site. (Of course, that was before Wed Bed Dead)
Another reason this memoir business comes as a surprise is I’d also never written narrative nonfiction before. Outside of fashion blogging, I’d only ever written fiction–and I’d only ever envisioned for myself a very arid future as a writer of leaden, ponderous literary fiction.
Last of all, I never thought of myself as funny. Certainly not funny enough to go about writing “comedic memoirs.”
…By which I mean, you should absolutely buy this book. Right now. Seriously. It’s really great and I am extremely qualified to write it.
So, how I got to this point is a little convoluted and–in the interest of hoping you’ll order my book or go outside and buy a copy–I thought I’d share with you the story of how I accidentally wrote a sex memoir.