I need you to write a memoir of my life as an obscure literary genius. Make it a multi-volume set, kind of like Casanova’s. Basically, the drama and bravado of my novels are outmatched only by my real life. At all times, you must make me sound tortured, misunderstood, and extremely cool.
The language should draw comparisons to David Sedaris, Joan Didion, every author with a 4.3+ average rating on Goodreads, and whoever wrote that badass Mötley Crüe memoir.
As far as the audience, it should appeal to everyone from New York Times critics to my uncle Carl, who hasn’t read a book in thirty years. Make it particularly impressive to any stepdads who might still think that I’m a “little momma’s boy.”
Give me a dramatic birth story where the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, but luckily, my biceps were big enough to unravel it myself. Say that I’ve used that as a metaphor for wrangling with my fears of imperfection ever since.