Hello again. I am Kyria Abrahams — writer of many important books, one of which has been published on purpose. After reading my memoir, I'm Perfect, You're Doomed: Tales from a Jehovah's Witness Upbringing
, some people have called into question the veracity of certain parts of my story.
For example, some have questioned if I actually had any "upbringing" at all. Yet others have claimed that I have no Jehovah's Witness tales, but rather a collection of "connected vignettes." Still others claim that the colon between my title and subtitle was stolen directly from Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance.
I mean to set the record straight today.
I understand that you're suspicious. You've been burned by the so-called genre of "memoir," which turned out to be more like "bigfatlie-moir"! Or... something.
You believed Margaret B. Jones in Love and Consequences when she claimed to be a Native American gangbanger. You believed Katherine Hepburn's Me in which she claimed to be Katherine Hepburn. And you even wasted $20.00 on the hardcover version of Frank McCourt's I Lied About All The Irish Stuff. You're understandably jaded.
The bottom line is: it's hard to be a memoirist these days. Not quite as hard as, say, an AIDS-orphan who glues plastic around the tips of shoelaces in order to afford antiretroviral medication for her 14 parentless siblings, but maybe second to that. And then, I guess — right after the life of every other person in the world.
But right after those people, it's a real rough career! Not to sound ungrateful, but these no-good, lying, needy attention-seekers have really ruined it for the rest of us kind-hearted, honest, needy attention-seekers.
Personally, I think the worst offender of them all is Benjamin Franklin with his ridiculously outlandish The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.
Screw you, Franklin! That's a library rental I can never get back!
So, on my last day blogging for Powells.com, I intend to set the record straight on some of the more common doubts and misconceptions about my book. Something I would like a certain Mr. Franklin to step forward and do as well — if he has the wooden balls, that is.
Doubt #1: That I was not raised by wolves and also by Fleetwood Mac.
Response: Oh yeah? Then what am I doing with this tambourine?
Doubt #2: That I was not sent by crazy mother to go live with my psychiatrist. In space.
Response: Oh yeah? Then explain how I got this photo of a space-psychiatrist?
Doubt #3: That I did not invent this:
Response: Oh yeah? Well... I did.
Doubt #4: That I was not raised as a Jehovah's Witness at all, but was actually raised in Opposite Land as a devout Wehovah's Jitness. That I lived in a world where I celebrated my birthday every single day and I never knocked on any strangers' doors because strangers' doors knocked on us!
Response: This part might actually be true.
Well, that's all I have time for. I hope this helps quiet some of the skeptics. I want to thank Powells.com for giving me the opportunity to defend my honor, and, once again, I'm sorry about those locusts.
In conclusion, thank you for reading my memoir. I only hope that my next book, sTORI Telling, will be as equally well-received.