“You seem so... fine,” a woman tells me after my bookstore reading, a stunned look on her face. The girl she’d read about in my memoir got into a car with a stranger at age 8, dropped acid at 12, and got evicted with her family twice before she was 13—and she had all the anger, despair, and attitude to prove it. Now here I was, all grown up, and doing fine.
"Writing my memoir was not therapeutic, but the writing I did to be able to write my memoir certainly was."
Frances Lefkowitz More