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284 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 21, 2026
Biographies are often too heavy, autobiographies too frivolous. Michael Cunningham's Unsayable: A Life in Writing is a rare find. It doesn't read like a memoir. It reads like a structure you want to live inside. In a world of doing too much and having too little attention span, stories within a story was a stroke of genius.
In my lyrics I once wrote "You have to love to write a song." I picked up this book because I knew it would be about love, a love that refuses to end. Critics have dismissed the chapters titled "Singularity" as abstract. As a songwriter, I found them exact.
Cunningham doesn't try to define an emotion. He builds the room it lives in. That's not prose — that's lyrics. He was kissed by Walt Whitman through Leaves of Grass in the middle of the night, after an exhausting bartending shift in Provincetown. That kiss taught him what writing really is. Isn't that music?
This book got personal fast. When Cunningham recalls a drag host silencing the whole club — "Shut up, queens..." — I felt that. I get criticized in my writing (never prose) too, unfairly, often stupidly. That line was mine.
I need to know the end, I don't like waiting. I usually rush straight to the last page, breathe out, then go back to the beginning to really read. Halfway through Unsayable, I started slowing down. I didn't want it to end. And you know what — it doesn't.