For me, the hardest part about writing has aways been getting started.
It seems simple enough. You start at the beginning.
The problem is determining where that beginning actually starts.
I was born on a Tuesday evening....
Who gives a shit? That hardly seem relevant.
Do people really care that my Daddy was an alcoholic? Does it matter that I always considered him a fully functioning alcoholic because he never missed work? Is it important that I never considered it a problem for him to drink because he was a hateful son of a bitch when he was sober?
Do people really care that my Momma spent most of my childhood sitting on the couch, watching soap operas, trying to tell herself that she didn't' have a problem because she waited until dark to drink her whiskey and smoke her weed? Does it matter that she would go for days, or even weeks at a time without speaking to me? Is it important that I was convinced she hated me for existing?
Do people really care that when I was little I regularly screamed at them both, begging them to let me have my brother, begging them to let me live somewhere else because I knew they didn't love me? Does it matter that they told me I was crazy, that she never admitted she had lied, even years later when he told me about my brother? Is it important that I can clearly remember often lying awake in the dark, a little girl focused on every beat of her heart, desperately urging it to stop?
But it seems like a lie to not start there.