One of my relatives is a published novelist. She has the smarts and the patience to write a couple of million words and not fall asleep. The other day she invited me to join her at a weekend writers' seminar for people who want to polish their novels all nice and shiny. The ultimate reason for attending the weekend is so an agent will announce that you're the next James or Jane Patterson, causing a bidding war among publishers and Hollywood directors which, in turn, makes millions of dollars suddenly appear in your empty bank account.
There's even an entire morning spent critiquing the first three chapters of your oeuvre.
Except I have no plans to write a
novel. I've wasted my IQ points watching too much television and
reading People Magazine. Because of that, I have no oeuvres to
critique. And people would wonder what the hell I was doing there.
Until I realized that even though
there's no way I could ever write a novel, I could write a memoir.
good news is that a memoir is kind of like a novel because everybody makes up
stories about what happened to them while they were growing up. And I could
But I don't have a memoir oeuvre
either. And there's only a week to write one and send it
in. So I had better get started. How's this for the opening:
At least I don't have to worry
about my epitaph. Pick one, any one.
"That woman is a piece of work."
"She said F*CK before it was fashionable."
"I'm looking for a loose cannon and your name keeps coming up."
When my mother was my age, she had been dead for twelve years.
I don't think a daughter ever gets over being two inches taller than her own father. I don't think he got over it either.
I have three brothers and a sister, but why talk about them. This is about me me me.
You know, this memoir thing
isn't too hard after all. A few more words and I'm good to go. Maybe I
should start practicing my autograph.