Thank You for Loving Me

When Our Words Become a Commodity

“Thank you for loving me,” they whispered as I turned up the hem on their velvet dress. It was our first Christmas together. I was in my fifty-seventh year—no one had ever thanked me for loving them.

Should our words be kept private? Am I cheapening them by publishing them in a book? Is this a fear other writers have? Do they parse their words to protect the privacy of their relationships?

The word novel on the front cover of my book is hand-lettered—a child-like font—a visual representation of the personal nature of the contents. I dance on the precipice between truth and lapses in memory. Names are changed, places, careers—all fictionalized. Autofiction—a convenient vehicle for a transgender love story told from the perspective of the lover, a cisgender woman.

I’m introduced to the voice, the method, and the stirrings of fearlessness via Alexander Chee’s How To Write An Autobiographical Novel. Chee used essays. In a story of gender fluidity, I attack my own biases—perfectionism, shame, unworthiness. Now at the age of eighty-one, amid the expectations of the culture where I live in Florida, I plot my strategy to leave a legacy of hope.

Would our words become a commodity, publicly traded, like a stock—yield merchandise like T-shirt sayings, coffee mugs, bumper stickers?

Who do our written words belong to? Once published they become a product— vendible, material, and for a lucky few—evergreen. I’m of the “No Expiration on Dreams” philosophy. I’ve picked out the artwork for the greeting cards, sticky notes, and guest towels. They’re embellished with the words: Thank you for loving me.

As always I appreciate you, my readers. Thank you for subscribing to Get Gutsy and encouraging my writing. Let me know in the COMMENTS who you believe our words belong to once they’re published. I think it’s worth a conversation.

Remember, thee’s no expiration on dreams,

A link to Paper Bags: https://woodhallpress.com/paper-bags