When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I told my much older sister that she could look forward to holding in her hands my own published book. I spoke with such confidence that she said she believed that I would achieve that goal. Nearly twenty years later, I am no closer to attaining that goal than when I first boldly made my claim.
It isn't because I lost the desire to. No, my lack of progress is more of a result of self-realization. To write--realistic fiction, in my case--would require me to do something that I have struggled to do seemingly all my life so far: be emotionally open and accessible. In other words, be willing to share my fears and insecurities, be vulnerable.
Despite claims that fiction is created from a writer's imagination, I understand that there is always some personal truth in all writing. As such, there are certain levels of risk involved for the writer in every story s/he writes. Writing is, after all, personal. Like any other creative form, writing is also an art. And for writers who approach the act of writing as art, all of their passion and little bit of their soul go into their literary creations.
Narrative or creative writing demands that the writer be willing to infuse a little bit of himself in his work--to be vulnerable. Just take a look at the most lasting literature in history. The ones that affect us the most connect us personally to the writer. We have a sense of the writers' fears, insecurities, strengths, and hopes. We have a sense of how these writers feel. In successfully doing so, these writers connect us to the human condition. I am not yet emotionally connected, confident, or capable of that type of writing. As a result, my few creative, fictional stories lack type of authenticity and vulnerability required to make them meaningful and impactful. That's why I consider myself to be stronger in writing expository texts. Emotions are not really required or expected.
Which brings me to Suzy Spencer's Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality (2012). As a journalist and writer of true crime books, in penning this particular book, Spencer could have taken the objective, emotionless route to relate her year-long investigation of sex in America--what people are really doing behind closed doors in their private (or not so private) lives. After all, objectivity is a tool of her profession (journalism) and her particular craft (non-fiction). However, she took the more dangerous path, and in doing so, relates her experience in what turned out to be a truly poignant, vulnerable, and thus, brave memoir of a sexual journey and her self-discoveries.
"I've always hated touch," she writes, and with this first sentence, Spencer welcomes her readers into the world of a fifty-year old woman coming to grips with her sexuality, relationships, and identity--not the seedy underbelly of sex behind closed doors in America, as I had thought. On her journey--which began with a Craigslist posting requesting a "Need to talk about sex..."--Spencer meets a slew of "sex freaks" (by society's standards) who she humanizes and reveals to be ultimately a group of people who at their core (despite being married and/or in committed relationships) are lonely and are seeking love and acceptance. They, however, are only secondary characters, the backdrop to provide context for understanding Spencer's own relationship with sex and her sexuality. Therein lies the strength of her memoir.
Unequivocally self-deprecating and honest, Spencer figuratively bares her sexual soul: "I never realized how not having a father might have stunted me in my sexual development and sexual maturity," she confesses early in the memoir. As she delves deeper into her investigation and is exposed to the world of swinging, BDSM, and phone sex, she confesses that "Sex, relationships--they're what scare me the most. No. What scares me the most is mother, family, and men. Judging me. Leaving me. Hurting me. Rejecting me." Suzy Spencer's candor results in feelings of empathy. How could we not empathize when she takes such an emotional risk in sharing with us her sexuality-based fears, insecurities, and inadequacies? To expose us to her vulnerabilities?
Giving any more specific details would require me to share too many confessions that make Secret Sex Lives so powerful and affecting. Suzy Spencer's memoir is an introspective, engaging, and personal read that enlightens us about how our childhood experiences and relationships influence our sexual identities; how our fears and insecurities can imprison us; and how the journey of self-discovery, self-acceptance, and self-love is unique, ongoing, and risky. Spencer's openness in sharing such personal and pain-filled insight into her sexuality and history is admirable. I highly recommend her memoir.
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