Fictionally True.

Image from npr.org

Yesterday, I was conversing with a fellow named Adam. I told Adam that I have been writing a lot since the quarantine began, and he asked me if he could read one of my stories.

For some reason, I was flummoxed by the request. First of all, I didn’t know which story to send. Second of all, I wasn’t sure that I wanted Adam reading my stories at all. He was a stranger.

I stalled.

I’m sure you can find them easily enough.

He didn’t skip a beat.

So you’re telling me to google you.

I told him to go ahead. I was curious to see what he could find.

A few minutes later, Adam returned to the conversation.

So…Taiwanese cinema? Rationally Irrational? That’s you right?

I wanted to ask him how he found my writing without knowing my last name, but I wasn’t surprised, so I didn’t.

Nevertheless, I panicked. I felt exposed and uncomfortable. I didn’t want Adam to have access to so many of my personal details, even though I share my work freely on Twitter and Medium.

I had to clarify.

Those are fictional memoirs,

I told him.

He didn’t question my statement.