Oh, Beyonce. I do love her, but she gets it in the neck so much. This week it’s via the Beck vs Bey meme, which goes thus:
Oh dear. What sexist rubbish (you can read why here).
The truth is, that authenticity is an impossible one for us writers to claim, whether writers of lyrics or fiction, poetry or prose. Love songs are written by those not in love and those in love sing about heartbreak; what fibbers, frauds and cheats they are. Name and shame now, I say. Because, y’know, that’ll teach them.
I know this is going to upset people but I’m even less authentic than Bey. Yes, I confess. In the stories I write, I lie. What’s more, I do it a lot. Like, all the time. I make shit up, constantly.
For example, I have NOT:
Had an affair with a seventeen year old boy when I was forty four (GOOD TIMES – Slim Volume : No Love Lost – Pankhearst)
Pushed my husband down the stairs (FRIDAY ROSES – Eating My Words – Gumbo Press)
Stolen an apricot from a supermarket (STOLEN – Spontaneity Magazine)
Broken up with someone because they hate summer and ice cream (OPPOSITES DETRACT – The FEM Literary Magazine)
Broken up with a man for having hairy legs (WE ALL HAVE STANDARDS – Female First)
Turned into a man and sat in my underpants while watching my neighbour cleaning their toilet via a secret camera set up by me (LITTLE BROTHER – Shadows & Light – Ansco Press)
Killed a man and dressed it up as a suicide (THE SHORT GOODBYE – The FEM Literary magazine and Twisted Tales 2014)
These aren’t the only examples. To my shame, I lie constantly on the page. If you want to inform the publishers of these publications, I won’t stop you. Sue me now. I deserve it.