What I Know

Remember that first piece of writing advice you received? Okay, so mine was, “C-a-t, not k-a-t,” (thanks, Mom) but I’m pretty sure “Write what you know,” was part of our first short story lesson, along with, “Show, don’t tell,” and, “Character is more important than plot.”

Well, here’s what I know. I grew up reading Star Magazine. I know lots of tabloid junk about people I have never met. Star is not even a high-quality gossip mag. At the time my mom brought it home every week, fresh off the press, it was viewed as less reputable than The National Enquirer, and only one step above Weekly World News.

I didn’t know any better. I swallowed those articles whole. By the time I was twelve, I believed that everyone in Hollywood had a cocaine addiction, every married couple cheated, and every talented male actor was gay.

I knew a lot of bullshit, in other words. I am gullible. I believe things other people don’t. I am constantly looking for the conspiracy theory behind every news story. This new President, joke that he is, gives me so much ammunition. When I start freaking out that I don’t know fact from fiction, I take a minute to remind myself: I never did.

Write what I know.

I know lies. I know bullshit.

I can’t even believe my own truth.