I was just asked–again–if I would some day write my memoirs.
First of all, no. Second of all, why? Third of all, who would read it?
There’s no question that I’ve lived an interesting life so far, but big deal. Don’t we all? From some perspective, every person on this planet has led an amazing life, overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Some are just more public than others. Some are grander and make better press. Mine is small potatoes.
And yet I encourage people to write their memoirs, if only to put their experience on paper for their own expression or for successive generations. I wish my grandparents had written theirs. Or their grandparents.
I believe that everyone who is moved to write the story of their life should do exactly that.
I could write my story, I suppose, but I am prone to exaggeration. I am first and foremost a fiction writer, and stretching the truth seems logical and legal whenever I’m sitting at the keyboard (or schmoozing at any kind of a social gathering). I’m working on that.
I believe that writers are the chroniclers of our times and the keepers of our literature, and we would be bereft indeed if nobody wrote their memoirs.
I guess I consider my story to be embedded in the other things I write.
This blog, for instance.