FAT NUDE
WRITING

​When I was in college, I had an opportunity to do the song "My Body is Walking in Space" in a summer stock production of Hair. With every fiber of my being, I wanted to do it, but as is appropriate in that context, the song was to be performed nude. Cue the monkey chorus in my head: "Flat chest! Thunder thighs! Hide!" I embraced self-doubt, sold it to myself as modesty, and opted to stay in the audience.

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I was in the front row on opening night when a 300-lb coloratura soprano strode naked to the front of the stage and delivered the single most transcendent moment of theater I’ve ever witnessed. That fat nude soprano did more than sing; she soared. She stunned. Her fearlessness was mesmerizing. She left us in tears, on our feet, and I was close enough to see that she was weeping, too.

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Fast forward. ​

 

When I was 32, cancer in my neck and chest destroyed my ability to sing, but I found my real voice while I was in chemo: I started writing. As I struggled with rejection and the negative self-talk familiar to every first-time author, the fat nude soprano often showed up in my dreams. Summoned by my subconscious, she came to remind me that you get exactly one opportunity to fully inhabit your life as an artist, and it doesn't come with a 90-year guarantee. So show up. And bring the fat nude energy.

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Authenticity, not perfection, is what makes fiction and memoir writing rich and resonant. A stretch-marked mother. A gut-shot thug. Star-crossed lovers. A haunted house. Stories are made interesting by trouble. Characters are made beautiful by scars. 

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My Fat Nude Mission Statement

I plan to spend however many or few years I have left writing with all the valor, self-ownership, and generosity of that fat nude soprano: ungirdled, unbridled, unadorned. I strive to expose my soul and embrace my fear, weakness, uniqueness, and even my regrets, because at the core of good writing – plump, juicy, fat nude writing – is the torn and mended heart of the writer, laid bare. 

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