My memoir in essays, detailing my life as an adopted, biracial Japanese American, began as my MFA thesis back in the early ’90s. My plan was to take a year post-graduation to polish up the manuscript, send it out to agents, and have it snatched up by a publisher. If you had told me then that my book wouldn’t be published for another 30 years, I’m not sure what I would have done.
Perhaps I should have listened more carefully to my thesis advisor, Sheila. After congratulating me on the successful completion of my 90-page manuscript, Sheila offered, gently, that perhaps the book “wasn’t ready to be out in the world yet.” I vaguely recall her using words like “premature,” “needs time to marinate,” and “distance.” I was indignant. Furious,…