What’s really got me today about the book is that no one can write a true book about sex. No one can get the whole story.
I’m uncomfortable with the idea of sexual truth, of the importance of telling it. For too many people, to do so would be life-threatening. I used a pseudonym on my blog from 1998-2004 for that reason — because I wanted to tell the truth as best I could without linking my offline life to it. Over time, I took back my whole name. (That’s Grant.) I’m open about more than I could have imagined I could sustain. That’s maybe brave? But there’s no way I can hold anyone to that standard. Sometimes just showing up where and how you can is the bravest thing.
The stories we are getting — almost more than we can publish but keep going — are as much the stories of writers working out sex in a kind of public as they are moments of individual discovery, regret, disarrayed memory.
The win here — not that art is about victory — is more for storytelling than for sex.
Tell us we’re good at writing, not being “brave” about fucking.
(posted in haste from a sidewalk in San Francisco)
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