Over lunch today, I started in on that memoir. The one that’s probably in bad taste, and definitely too soon, and maybe will never see the light of day, no matter how much time I put in on it.
And it isn’t half bad.
There’s a voice in the back of my head that tells me no one cares. That no one will ever care about anything that small, or anybody that insignificant, and that the people who do care–no, that’s not contradictory–will be royally pissed off and hate the whole thing.
They will probably set fire to my books, my home, and me, personally.
I’m having one of those weeks, where Facebook turns into a mob, and even though there’s not one thing anybody can do about it, people don’t stop trying.
And–as it turns out–stirring shit really doesn’t make it smell any better.
So, anyway… I started writing the writing that’s coming to me, now. It’s not what I usually write. I haven’t done anything with autobiography or memoir since… well, since the last time one of my teachers made me.
Over my lunch hour, I got enough words in to know that it’s going to be tough to write. Well, I knew that. I got enough words in to know it’s going to be tougher than I thought it would be.
I might not ever finish the thing. I might go back to writing about aliens an psychopaths. But I think I’ll keep working on it for now. When I have time, and if I feel like it. I don’t have to decide what to do with it until after I actually have a manuscript.
I’ll think about it.