must do to write fiction, to lie, to elaborate, to elongate, to
exaggerate, to distort, to get tangled up in moderations or
modifications or deviations or compromises o f m ixing this
with that or combining this one with that one because the
problem is finding words for the truth, especially if no one will
believe it, and they will not. I can’t make things up because I
w ouldn’t know after a while w hat’s blood, w hat’s ink. I barely
know any words for what happened to me yesterday, which
doesn’t make tom orrow something I can conceive o f in m y
mind; I mean words I say to m yself in m y ow n head; not social
words you use to explain to someone else. I barely know
anything and if I deviate I am lost; I have to be literal, if I can
remember, which m ostly I cannot. N o one will acknowledge
that some things happen and probably at this point in time
there is no w ay to say they do in a broad sweep; you describe
the man forcing you but you can’t say he forced you. If I was a
man I could probably say it; I could say I did it and everyone
would think I made it up even though I’d just be remembering
what I did last night or twenty minutes ago or once, long ago,
but it probably w ouldn’t matter. The rapist has words, even
though there’s no rapist, he ju st keeps inventing rape; in his
mind; sure. He remembers, even though it never happened;
it’s fine fiction when he writes it down. Whereas m y mind is
getting worn away; it’s being eroded, experience keeps
washing over it and there’s no sea wall o f words to keep it
intact, to keep it from being washed away, carried out to sea,
layer by layer, fine grains washed away, a thin surface washed
away, then some more, washed away. I am fairly worn away
in m y mind, washed out to sea. It probably doesn’t matter
anyway. People lead their little lives. T here’s not much
dignity to go around. T here’s lies in abundance, and silence for
girls who don’t tell them. I don’t want to tell them. A lie’s for
when he’s on top o f you and you got to survive him being
there until he goes; M alcolm X tried to stop saying a certain
lie, and maybe I should change from Andrea because it’s a lie.
It’s just that it’s a precious thing from my mother that she tried
to give me; she didn’t want it to be such an awful lie, I don’t
think. So I have to be the writer she tried to be— Andrea; not-
cunt— only I have to do it so it ain’t a lie. I ain’t fabricating
stories. I’m making a different kind o f story. I’m writing as
truthful as the man with his fingers, if only I can remember
and say; but I ain’t on his side. I’m on some different side. I’m
telling the truth but from a different angle. I’m the one he done
it to. The bait’s talking, honey, if she can find the words and
stay even barely alive, or even just keep the blood running; it
can’t dry up, it can’t rot. The bait’s spilling the beans. The
