Every once in a while I read something that rocks me. Really takes me somewhere, you know? And today I read something, not yet released, that did this to me. And I’ve sworn to keep it to myself! So, I did what any self-respecting confidant would do: I phoned my mom and told her. She’s safe; doesn’t really travel in my same circles; and truthfully, probably doesn’t care enough to keep it in her head much less leak it anywhere.

I got this sneak peak because I know the author, and I like to think we have a mutual respect for one another both personally and professionally. Somewhere around page 81, I had decided it was a fantastic book, and began to ask myself a question: Would this book be so great if the author was a stranger?

Funny, innovative, true, courageous, speaking to my own suburban upbringing. Yes, the book would be great even if I didn’t admire the author so damn much. Listen to these lines:

“To write is to forget the self (or selves), to resurrect the spirit. But how to say what needs to be said when you are a coward?
You do not have to be good.
You skulk through your fiction, slither through poetry.
You do not have to walk on your knees…
Habitualization devours us. It’s the old you who filtered your feelings through others, said what others wanted you to say. Right? That’s how you’ve led your life so far. Let yourself be defined by the definitions of others?
Do you solemnly swear to love, honor, and obey the definitions imposed on you by your parents, your family, your spouse?
I do.
Better to hide within the page than to face the self. The only thing more frightening is never to have written at all.”

I’m just floored. Wait until you read it. You’ll love it too.