Today I’m thinking of the time a male classmate walked out of workshop with me. He said, “I find that when women write stories like yours, they’re usually true.”

I’m thinking of the editor that rejected my story. He said it seemed like I didn’t understand depression, so I shouldn’t write about it.

I’m thinking of the blurred lines between truth and lie. Why call writing fiction if you think it’s about me anyway?

I’m thinking, how much do we know about an author, just because they’re giving us a glimpse inside their mind?

I’m thinking, why differentiate something as fiction vs. nonfiction if you think you know better, anyway.