this is a blog about love.

One of my co-workers who likes to constantly bug me about my unwritten
novel (which will be memoir not novel but whatever) once pushed me for
details about what I was working on (and I use "working" in the LOOSEST
POSSIBLE SENSE OF THE WORD). And I talked about Wes. And she, newly
divorcing, seemed dismayed and tried to give me a feminist pep-talk
about how surely I had stories of my own, about ME, to write instead.
It was very much because of where she was coming from and I didn't take
it personally at all. But I did want to shout a bit: "It's not automatically anti-feminist just because it involves a MAN! It's not automatically a portrayal of me as a weak and supportive wife figure just because I want to tell the story of how we got here and because the shocker part involves Wes' Big Accomplishment. I have my own shockers, thank you very much. His just happens to be the news-worthy part."

Instead it made me very, very grateful for my story.
For Wes' story. For the intersection of our stories. For the
opportunity to be his wife and to write about him because he is amazing
and normal and ordinary and unusual and perfect. (Almost perfect. He
would be perfect if he sat still more often and if he could work
audiovisual devices and was a bit less messy when eating.) Anyway, his
story, our story, IS my story. I take credit for some of the
amazingness. I really do. It is a swaggering and boasting thing to say,
but we are where we are because we did it together. He is where he is
because of me. Yes, he could have done it alone. He could have done it
with some other perfect women. (Almost perfect. I would be perfect if I
was less bitchy and didn't leave my clothes strewn on the bedroom chair
and if I always remembered to put the nail clippers away.) But he didn't do it alone or with someone else. He did it with me.

I am worried lately because I am reading a book about book proposals. Some agents don't like them for memoirs, want a whole book written instead. Others are OK with them. I have a half-written book and a need for a deadline to spur me on and keep me from getting discouraged. And a bunch of literary connections. Surely this is enough? Heh.

Another worry is the need to explain why *I* am the right person to write this story. I was hung up on this for a while. Why is this MY story to tell and not Wes'? Why isn't Wes writing the book? Well, for one, Wes has no desire to write this book. I have a crushing and all-consuming need to share our story. Also, while he is a writer, too, he is more of the journalistic sort and this isn't his thing.

But I think I have worked out a real reason, too. This is my story to tell because I could have used this story when I was going through it. Just as I searched for miscarriage stories and going crazy stories and fibromyalgia stories and coming out stories and divorcing parent stories. Just as I have searched for stories to match my life and prop me up for as long as I have been able to read words. We need other people's stories. This story is necessary. While I have certainly met and heard about them online, I have never actually met another person in real life who stayed with their significant other through a gender transition and/or sex change (any new readers out there who need an education on why those are different things – let me know and I will post on that). I certainly know they exist, but our numbers are not massive. We need each other's stories.

It seems that we have a societal idea of memoir-worthy stories being those that document something we have done totally alone. But we also like love stories. So let's call our love story an accomplishment, a joint one (really, aren't ALL healthy relationships an accomplishment?).