We wandered through the bookstore, looking at picture books, encyclopedias, socks, calendars, bookmarks. She followed me to the section where they keep domestic histories. I was looking for a book by Ruth Goodman. They did not have it. But they did have books by friends. And a few books that my words appear in as interviews, quotations, brief nods to my work. I showed her the books by my friends. I showed her the books with a couple of my words on a couple pages, with an author’s kind nod in my direction.
Pssst: A book by a friend is in the feature photo! Ejaculate Responsibly by Gabrielle Blair! I wrote about it when it came out.
Meg Conley
And I told her and myself that knowing people who write books and getting to see my words in the works of others was more than I could have ever imagined for myself at her age. It’s not the first time I’ve said a version of this to myself or others. And I don’t think it is a lie. But I also don’t think it is the truth. Since I was diagnosed, I’ve tried to make this thing that is neither true nor false feel real. And lately, it almost has. But as it’s felt more real, I’ve felt less real.
And so here I am, writing this. Acknowledging that when I was her age, and every age since, I’ve imagined writing a manuscript that is turned into a book on a shelf. That this imagining has defined me for decades. That I might not have the cognition or strength or time, now or ever, to transmute imagined objects into reality. But this imagined book makes me more real to myself. And so it is okay to keep it on my shelf, at least.