Maybe I need to clarify.
Maybe I need to write something with some relevance, pertinence for once. A writing for a different nut on a different tree in a different region I haven't explored. I've so many stories to tell, that often my brain bones clank together and crackle and shutter and yell. But my pen only has so much ink, figuratively, and literally, because I prefer writing ideas out before typing them.
It is much more gratifying to watch the ink flood the paper as a tsunami would an unprepared coast.
I'm not exactly sure I know which of my stories are fiction and which are not. This possibly comes from my dramatization. My outlandish elaboration of simplistic ideas, events, memories.
But what fun is remembering something exactly as it occurred? Our memories age everyday. They do not become more lucid or coherent. They fade.
I feel compelled to add pizzazz and gusto to my memories, to coat them in silver and myrrh.
This only increases their memorability.
This equivocation of sort does not diminish their value, it maximizes it.
My reason for not knowing what fits into fiction or non-fiction is only because the line between the two has so thinly been erased, that they often collide.
It's all true, it's my truth, at least.
And no one else has to believe it except for me, but that is not to say everyone else cannot be entertained by it.