Anna David, once the epitome of the literary exhibitionist, now finds herself dwelling on the potential embarrassment her racy tales could bring to her toddler son. Nearly two decades ago, she penned the semi-autobiographical novel Party Girl, which dishes out the gritty and often scandalous details of her life as a journalist entrenched in Hollywood's wildness. This sex-fueled romp tells the story of a cocaine-snorting magazine writer, mirroring David's own turbulent experiences, including escapades with celebrities and eventual struggles with addiction.
Fast forward to today, as David takes on the role of parent, her perspective has dramatically shifted. The author, who battled cocaine addiction for two years before achieving sobriety, has serious concerns about her old work coming back to haunt her. "I just felt like PG-ing some of the NC-17," David, now 54, said, reflecting on the explicit elements she initially included. The need to protect her son from the more intense revelations of her past spurred her to take action. She is rewriting Party Girl to revamp its explicit narrative.
Much like the trend seen across generations of tell-all writers, David is not alone in her anxieties. Many authors propelled to fame by their raw, candid memoirs are now grappling with similar concerns—a realization they share with their peers, such as Joe Oestreich and Tessa Fontaine. Oestreich, whose memoir Hitless Wonder: A Life in Minor League Rock and Roll unearths tales of romance from his youth, has ensured his children remain blissfully unaware of certain chapters of his past. "My kids don’t know about all the steamy details... and I don’t want them to know just yet," Oestreich remarked, recognizing the desire to control the narrative around their upbringing.
Meanwhile, Fontaine, author of The Electric Woman, reflects on how the candor of her writing about her troubled relationship with her mother might affect her own daughter. With the scars of her past laid bare, she grapples with anxiety over how her daughter might interpret those revelations as her young mind grows. Fontaine confessed, "I really didn’t believe I loved my mom... it feels horrifying to think what if my kid feels this way." Even though her daughter is still too young to read the memoir, it remains a point of contemplation for the author as she considers how to eventually discuss her past freely.
Interestingly, David's revision is not merely about shielding her son from her youthful indiscretions—it's also strategically positioning her work within the ever-evolving literary market. The re-release of Party Girl coincides with the emergence of 'Quit Lit'—a sobriety genre narratively rich with tales of personal struggle and redemption. David hopes this revised version can resonate with today’s readership, distancing her narrative from the stigma associated with her former lifestyle. Previously published by HarperCollins, the book's original launch was less than stellar, attributed to unexpected delays, but now, with the original rights reverted to her, she hopes to make her past work relevant once more.
To accomplish this, she undertook months of careful editing, methodically toning down the content she felt could evoke judgment. David removed thirty-two explicit words, excised discussions of intimate encounters, and altogether altered scenes she worried would lead to social media backlash. Notably, she also addressed her past portrayal of service workers, aiming for more sensitivity than she had initially embraced. "I just know how embarrassing parents can be anyway to any teenager," David quipped, humorously acknowledging the natural gap between parental and teenage worlds. “I don’t really want to add to the embarrassment.”
Although some authors choose to leave their works untouched, hoping to create open dialogues about their pasts with their children, David’s approach is remarkably proactive. The notion of preserving privacy is palpable among these writers as they navigate the intersections of parenthood and authorship.
At its core, this period of self-editing reflects the changing tides of how literature is consumed and perceived. Literature, especially memoirs, has traditionally laid bare the truth of experiences. Still, as these narratives get closer to home—literally—it raises inevitable questions about vulnerability, legacy, and the potential rift honesty can create between generations.
Oestreich teaches memoir writing and encourages his students to balance such honesty with the wisdom acquired over time. “You owe them the truth, but not all at once,” he noted, embodying the struggle many authors face as they strive to reconcile their literary pasts with their present roles as parents. For many, this shift underlines the complicated nature of sharing one’s truth and the fears tied to the legacies they create.
The ultimate takeaway for these authors appears to rest within the layers of intention behind their writings. David hopes to create space for conversation—ultimately empowering dialogue rather than embarrassment through her retold narratives. This creates new opportunities for connection, reminding parents and children everywhere of the sometimes complicated journeys they each must navigate.
Now, as Anna David and her contemporaries forge their paths as parents and writers, they each ponder the legacies they leave behind, hoping to mold narratives not only of their past selves but also of the futures they build for their children.