Maybe I Did, or Maybe I Didn't
Last night I attended a lecture by an author who supposedly knows what he's talking about, on the subject of "Writing the Memoir." I have the attention span of a autistic gnat, so I didn't get much out of it. But I do remember one line that he attributed to someone whose name I can't remember. It was something like, "Writing your memoir is easy. Just make it up as you go along." The lecturer disagreed with that advice, but I like it. After all, who can remember every single detail of every single event in his murky past? And who, upon reading what you have written, could reliably dispute your rendition? He or she may disagree, because, after all, we all take away our own impressions of any given event. But, unless he can produce a documentary video of the event, his word has no more weight than yours. Also, according to Mr. Memoir, it's acceptable to take more liberties with a memoir than an autobiography. So...I think I will discard my fantasies of someday writing my autobiography and replace them with fantasies of writing my memoirs.
Orrrrrr...I can just continue to wander around all day, moving items from spot A to spot B, picking leaves out of the flowerbed, arguing with myself about whether or not it's okay to eat the Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween, reading 50 different blogs, working the N.Y. Times crossword puzzles, fantasizing about cleaning out the bulging closets, drawers, attic and basement, and attempting to recover my lost youth.