It feels almost pro forma for any piece on Sheila Heti to start with some gesture toward understanding what “autofiction” is. Never mind that Heti herself dislikes the term, as do most writers tarred with the same brush. And never mind that nothing new ever seems to come of it. We still replay the same irritating questions again and again with the pleasure of a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime. We ask: is it memoir? Metafiction? Autobiographical fiction? Creative nonfiction—whatever that is? The last refuge of disillusioned MFA students? Or is it simply a marketing term?
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