Through these powerful and insightful essays, David Olimpio explores the residual effects of sexual abuse, divorce, and grief. With surprising candor and a disarming sense of humor, Olimpio takes on the outwardly wholesome landscape of his suburban Houston childhood and the complex sexual relationships in his adult life. Both poignant and poetic, This Is Not a Confession, leaves us with a sense that our identities have the power to transcend our circumstances.
David Olimpio grew up in Texas, but currently lives and writes in Northern New Jersey. He believes that we create ourselves through the stories we tell, and that is what he aims to do every day. Usually, you can find him driving his truck around the Garden State with his dog. He has been published in Barrelhouse The Nervous Breakdown, Awst Press, The Austin Review, Rappahannock Review, Crate, and others. You can find more about him at davidolimpio.com, including links to his writing and photography. He tweets every day about a broad range of important topics, from the ontological meaning of dog-poop bags to the erotic potential of red velvet cake. He would love for you to join him: @notsolinear.
Funny and thought provoking. This is Not a Confession is unapologetically honest, raw, real, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing these bits of your life with us, Dave!
"In the end, our stories are the most powerful things we have," David Olimpio writes in THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION. Born not of a singular form but forged from many - essay, memoir, hybrid, collage - this book is as textured and varied as the human experience. It may defy easy classification, but readers will agree: here is an unforgettable debut that will shatter you. With devastating honesty and keen, poetic insight, Olimpio captures the fluidity of time and selfhood as he pierces the heart of the age-old question: What makes us? "We create our memories; they do not create us."
This glorious essay collection is boldly relentless in its investigations. A meditation on time, memory, and the construction of personal narrative, this one is a must read for anyone interested in the meanings we as humans try to construct, despite all the proof that we are nothing more than dust in the wind. Also, Olimpio is an Old 97's fan. Instant credibility.
THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION is a confession. Olimpio tells us what he isn't doing, then does it. This book is rough and behind the gorgeous cover there is real hurt and pain. So much of it was hard to for me to read because of the intense emotion involved...but when are confessions/intense emotions ever easy? This book felt like late-night conversations in a car with the pedal all the way down, slick, curvy roads, eyes wide-open. THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION made me want to write, to confess. THIS IS NOT A BOOK REVIEW. It's more than that. THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION is more than a book too.
"...a road map, a refutation and a reminder that while shame and confusion may well reverberate across time, we need not be the products of the transgressions visited upon us."
I always think a sign of a good book is one that you think about long after you finish it. It hasn't been that long, but I know that I will be thinking about this book for a long time. Beautiful, brutal, lovely, uncomfortable, intellectual and candid. Read it.
David Olimpio's writing voice is SUPERB. Strong and steady, yet light and vulnerable. Not easy with such challenging subject matter. I didn't want this book to end. A book to re-read.
A powerful story, both haunting and beautiful. A story of heartbreak and yet still hopeful. This was an engaging read, and I finished it easily in a day.
With respect to fellow reviewer Leesa, I have to disagree with her. THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION is, truly, no confession. Olimpio addresses this head-on within "The Big Bad Wolf": "You will never fucking shame me." A confession requires guilt and knowledge of wrongdoing. Olimpio doesn't, and shouldn't, feel guilty. As some people say to assault survivors, "I'm sorry for what was done to you" instead of "I'm sorry for what happened to you." Olimpio writes about heavy topics, but he never fails to show where the blame lies; he resists telling his story as something that "just happened." When he makes a mistake, he points it out more clearly than anyone else would. And when something wrong is done to him, he does not shoulder that burden for the abuser. It's admirable.
In these braided essays, we receive a fragmented picture of moments of loss that shouldn't have happened. The essays deal with sexual assault, death, misunderstandings, and more, but no single essay has a simple, linear narrative; each one builds, through tiny details, on the previous essays. It made me want to reread it just after finishing it. In mosaic style, Olimpio gives us one tile at a time, bringing the story of how a person is shaped into focus. This collection candidly paints a picture of how we wear our pasts, positively and negatively. Writing candidly about agony and euphoria, Olimpio emerges from the page, sure-footed (except on icy stairs) and calmly solid. He knows what he's about, and he won't apologize for it.
Of particular note to me were the first few essays that focused on a major loss in childhood; Olimpio deftly portrays small moments of great importance while also keeping the reader attuned to the larger story.
a tremendous book... one with complete honesty... David placed all of his emotions out there for all to see and in such a way that was entertaining... much like a story board for a movie.... I laughed.... I cried..... and I was angry... made me think and review my own life... definitely worth the read...
Raw and aptly titled. I devoured this book quickly, perhaps because I grew up knowing David. We all have stories of our life, some are hard,whether it's divorce, sex, love, pain, we are never alone.
If you have ever wanted a content/trigger warning for anything, ever, walk away from this book. Ditto if you hate "Frisco" (though no part of it appears to take place there, being centered more in Texas), have ever used "them queers" or "slut" as an epithet, or think NPR is Communist infiltration of the American airwaves.
If, on the other hand, you are interested in an intensely personal, confrontational—yet "not a confession"—autobiographical work that skirts the edges of the memoir genre while both epitomizing and undermining it, this just might be your bag. Original and yet derivative, provocative yet disturbingly commonplace (at least in some not-quite-common places), this tale of childhood and its ensuing adulthood is as sure to draw a wince as a smile from those who are willing and able to acknowledge the parallels in their own experiences growing up across the millennial boundary (i.e., probably mostly GenX slackers). Others are more likely to shake their heads, or write disgusted letters to editors who don't really give a shit what you think.
In David Olimpio's very short collection of memoir-based essays, he explores a surprisingly wide range of topics, going from the thrill of receiving an alarm clock at age six to the standardization of time in America (basically synchronizing U.S. time to "railroad" time). Generally, the essays are warm, funny, and packed with insightful details, going from the life and reproduction of cicadas to being raped by a babysitter to getting married, while both he and his wife carry-on with their separate polyamorous dalliances. Olimpio writes with humor and no-holds-barred honesty. The last section of the book he describes as "speculative nonfiction." It's written as if he's being interviewed about his sex life. In this section the writing becomes darker and less relatable.