IN COLLEGE, I memorized a paraphrase of Wordsworth’s definition of poetry: the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranquility. It suggests a deceptively modest formula for all writing: simply access strong feelings in a safe space, and good writing will follow. I remember this description as both terrifying and fascinating. Looking back now, I see that writing about myself scared me; a bigger problem was that I could not access the tranquility Wordsworth prescribed. And so I turned my back to introspective writing, choosing journalism instead, where I could write about others with the occasional assistance of literary devices learned from poetry and fiction. It took me nearly three decades to come to writing memoir, and even now, I feel afraid, and for good reason: I am writing about sexuality and love experienced at a tender age. At that time, I hurt people I loved.

Striking the balance between brutal honesty and graceful empathy is an enormous challenge. I’ve come to understand the solution (easier said than done) as a dance between distance and intimacy. Too much space blurs meaning; too little space flattens the emotional pull of the work orreader. As I wrote, I found I needed some way to divert both my own and the reader’s attention ever so slightly, while keeping an eye on the story itself.