Publishing my upcoming memoir, “Eddie, I Hate You” marks my first publication. My work has been rejected for a long time, from a lot of places, by either a lot of people or a lot of robots.
I keep writing because I can’t seem to help it.
I don’t know how to do much else that isn’t writing.
I’m not the best writer in the world but it has never been my goal to be the best writer in the world.
All I want is connection.
I started writing when I was little.
My dad used to write us songs. I joined him, rhyming non-words with real words. Singing and clapping.
The work of what I was doing, the writing, was bad. But, I loved it.
My signature rhyme: “Daddy, baddy, boomerang haddy.”
For a while, every poem I write, which was a lot of poems, hinges at the word “boomerang”.
My family starts to call me “Boomer”.
I am famous. For junk. But, I love the people who love my work. I am happy.
From there, I write stories. Every story is about a vegetable. Each vegetable eats itself. The end.
I write every story for my dad. He smiles and laughs.
Connection is the reward of great communication.
For shy people, like me, communication is a dry mouth and a dizzy spell. It feels bad to speak. It feels better not to speak. Connection slips away as I age especially as I learn that no one wants my stories.
The first essay in Eddie, I Hate You is called “Erotic Poetry”. It tells about the time I kept a book of long-form poetry about a boy who I would pray for at night. One of those fourth grade stories, you know how eight year olds are.
I remember the poems being physical, a lot of language about our bodies. Pages. Volumes.
I carry the notebooks everywhere until one day…..well, you can read the essay but, the ending is not “connectivity”. No. Opposite.
In this memoir, I repeatedly learn that I am unable to express myself orally. I have trouble saying “no”. I have trouble saying anything.
Writing is who I am. It is what I do. I am good at it.
It is ok with me that I am ok at virtually nothing else.
I am excited to self-publish because I have control over the exact message I am using to connect with you. It may be junky bunky boomerang funky, hardcover nonsense, but it’s honest and it is physical and there is no shame in being a mess, if that’s what it takes to connect in a way that only ever happens between two people who are staring each other in the eyes, agreeing on the value of what’s being sung.
I know I am ready to publish because I know I have stared each of you in the eye through these blog posts. It’s been four years. I trust the wide open everything. I trust reception.
It feels like every time I blink, there’s a new string dangling from nowhere, right in front of me. Wide angle shot: hundreds of strings shooting straight out of the wide open everything.
I’ve been sending messages up there for years and now I can stop long enough to see the dangling connections. We are hanging from nowhere. Searching.
I am giving because I can.
No one else can give for me.
I’m making this book about everything that went wrong because it’s my turn to sing.
My father doesn’t read my writing anymore.
It seems part of growing up is giving away a piece of yourself to the world who otherwise would never get to have you.
Some people get married.
But, that isn’t my dream.
I’ve always been a writer. It’s been my dream to be on bookshelves, comforting strangers.
Pretty soon, it’s real. Or else, it’s real now.
Eddie, I Hate You. A Memoir by Rachel Ganz, comes out oh…..any day now, the exact day is TBD but you can visit this blog for updates every day as I write about what it feels like to release a personal memoir about things that never should have happened.
Take good care of yourselves. Find connections. Search for them, at least.