Writers are hard-wired…
…to cannibalise their lives, throw friends and family under buses all for the sake of a sparkling piece of prose.
The grand dame of personal essays, Joan Didion, once said,
“Writers are always selling somebody out.”
I confess that occasionally (every day) I look at my life as a ridiculously compelling series of stories and characters I must immortalise in a book, film (soon). Not because I think my laundry is dirtier than yours, but maybe it’s better out than in?
That sharper than sharp writer, Nora Ephron (also known as the scribe who immortalised orgasms served up in a New York deli – thanks to Sally and a bemused Harry) was raised to believe that everything is copy. Eventually, she realised this meant, control; slip on a banana peel and folks will laugh at you. But write about slipping on that peel and it’s your laugh. Now you’re the hero of the pratfall, not the victim.
Before I started today’s Phylosophy, a fashion crisis hit me outta nowhere. I changed three times before I deemed myself ‘ready to write’.
Sequinned track pants? Too shiny. White linen? Are you nuts? A star-patterned black jumper? Too broody. A slightly moth-eaten, long cashmere cardigan in dirty vanilla over a one-shouldered black onesie. Perfect.
Not me a distracted, procrastinating, attire-obsessed writer with one eye on scroll-holing and the other on snacks.
So, sure. One of these days, I may sell you out. I just gotta get my outfit right, first.
© Phyllis Foundis 2026