Rules of Engagement

Housekeeping post for the new year ahead of us…

Before I keep baring my soul, I’d like to establish a code of conduct when it comes to autofiction:

Please don’t speak to me about any of it. At all.

If we’ve worked together in any capacity, please don’t talk to me about this space. Don’t ask me questions, don’t make comments to me in person. I will probably think about killing myself in front of you or quitting whatever thing we’re doing or did together.

If you’re the person I’m writing about, I guess it’s okay for you to acknowledge it to me. If you think you’re that person, though, and you turn out to be wrong? Really awkward for you, and not my fault!

If you have something to say about this place, I think you should say it in the comment section. I think you should write me a letter. I don’t think you should make a joke about my life to my face. I guess you can talk about me and this behind my back, that’s your choice.

I want to be completely uninvolved from here on out. I am already uninvolved, in my mind. I am writing from a deep part of my subconscious that is not necessarily connected to a government name or disappointing physical form. I don’t think it’s a character, though. I don’t think it’s not true. To be a real, honest-to-God embarrassing person, you’ve got to write like you’re somehow far removed from all the stupid things you just did like 20 minutes ago.

I love you reading this. I love you! And I love that you’re reading this. When you’ve looked at my art and told me privately something special about it, it’s made my torturous and evil life worth it. It has made me feel like maybe I am not going to die like trees falling in forests with no one there. But I can’t talk about any of this going forward - too secret, too real.

Thank you for understanding.