My friends review the book I just wrote

Spoiler: Maybe it’s not a book. My friends read it and said it’s too short to be a book. It takes about twenty minutes to read.

They’re right about the length. The book began as posts I wrote over the past six years and didn’t publish. Like the ones about being on the run with a cello. It’s hard to publish those in real time, because then you’re not really on the run anymore. The rest I didn’t publish because I wasn’t sure why I was writing them.

The biggest contender for why-am-I-writing-this is me complaining about my brothers. Because I actually adore them. Or I adore the idea of being adored by them. And since that’s not happening, I have to revisit what I’m doing with them at all.

I’m starting to think it’s about not letting the family trauma ruin the next generation.

My kids can only have a close relationship with their cousins if I keep a relationship with my siblings. I loved my cousins. They were an enormous part of my childhood, and I held onto them as long as my grandma was in the picture. After that it was up to my grandma’s kids to give their kids a focal point. My parents failed at that.

Or so I thought. I thought it would be me and my brothers and no parents. But actually it’s my parents and my brothers and no me.

So now I’m trying to decide if I picked this. Or if I’m picking it now. It’s hard to complain if you don’t know what you want. So the book is not a book. It’s me struggling to weigh the cost of having family.

When I lived on the farm, I tore books apart and used the pages as wallpaper. I see now that this is how I make books.

I learned from my previous books that you can’t make up reviews. People sniff it out. So here’s a real one, from my friend Dana:

“You think this is about how much you love your family? I really don’t think your family will see it that way.”

Twenty minutes. Download it here: