It's been an interesting week to say the least. My book, Tales From the Family Crypt is out and is selling pretty briskly. So that's exciting. But it is a memoir of my very dysfunctional extended family, some of whom are still alive. Those are the same people who caused all of the dysfunction so you can imagine seeing their true story in print (or, as the case may be, in a Kindle) didn't make them wildly happy. Some have posted reviews, although my favorite of those is the one comparing me to Hitler and it's obvious that family member didn't read the book.

Others have threatened to sue, although to my knowledge, it's still legal to tell the truth, even when it's ugly. 

I'm not sorry I wrote the book; I'm not sorry it's out there. But I have spent a great deal of time this week mulling over what compelled me to tell this story. (Clearly very few people write for the money!) I think we are, after all, only our stories. We tell them to touch others and maybe to process our lives. We tell them to inform and to comfort ourselves and others. A few reviewers did, gratifying I must admit, say my book helped them process their own family situations. Some said they'd recommend it to others suffering extreme family dysfunction. But, overall, I think I told this story simply because I had no choice. I had to. Maybe I'm not even sure why but I was compelled to tell this story. 

Is that what makes a writer? I think so. The compulsion to write and to know we're heard motivates many of us. Do you agree?