10 months ago, I confirmed that Dr. Morris Wortman, my mother’s fertility doctor, is my biological father. Two weeks ago, I sat in front of the TV and watched myself on Good Morning America as I discussed that and more with Nightline anchor, Juju Chang.
If you’ve been following along, the above is both a concise summary of all I’ve written here. And I made it to national news!
And it felt anticlimactic.
I’ve spoken so much about this topic that I’m numb to it; the words feels rehearsed at this point. Can you tire of the craziest thing that ever happened to you? Yes, yes, you can.
To boot, most of the writing has been so heady and serious that I lost my easy, conversational voice in the process. Instead of writing what I felt, I started to perform it, and there’s a difference. It’s important to me that you feel what I feel, sure. But I can only drag you through my emotional waterboarding so much before it feels overstated.
When I go into that well, it’s empty now. I’m not emotional.
I’ve dealt with it. I’m not defined by it, even if this story is one of my best tricks for livening up a boring conversation.
Maybe that’s fine. I don’t know what you came here for in the first place — curiosity, shared experience, a keen interest in bald men of average height. But for my sake, I hope you’ll stick around for some experimentation in format (and topic) that’s decidedly less Lifetime, all the time.
This blog has been about my desire to tell this story, but it’s also been about me wanting to write, period.
Selfishly, I hope to earn a book deal out of this. I used to think that made me an opportunist, and you know what? It does. I don’t care.
If my biggest ambition is to have a literary agent and/or publishing house take a flyer on a guy whose biggest claim to fame is the unconventional way he arrived on earth, who am I to get in their way?
In the meantime, strap in — I have no idea where we’re going next.