Over the past months I’ve been deep into the writing of a comprehensive memoir of my childhood, early adulthood, and my relationship—such as it was—with my father. An enormously difficult task, which would have been a breeze had he been less an unredeemable tyrant.
As I've been monotonously repeating at every opportunity, an honest and accurate account of the facts in chronological order is not sufficient. Memoir conventions demand that autobiography be shaped into a story, a drama, a breathless succession of conflicts resolved, great needs finally met, and overall a joyous transcendence of a toxic legacy.
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