So, I’ve been kicking around an idea for awhile now. To write a book.
Yeah – how many people say that daily? Wannabe authors, newbie authors, aspiring authors, et al.
I do participate in NaNoWriMo every year. But that’s a novel. This would not be a novel. It would be more of a memoir/humor thing.
Stop! I know you’re going to say it has been done before (e.g. David Sedairs, The Bloggess). The thing is, I have been thinking about this for a long time (a decade?) and everyone who knows me thinks I should write one. Last week one of my kung fu brothers told me that my life is an adventure story. He said that I do not go to the grocery store – I go on a quest.
Now, I know if you read my blog I seem vaguely interesting. The blogs are very innocuous and droll. Occasionally, I will write a witty line. But this is in no way indicative of the pandemonium that is my life.
Sure, a lot of people think their lives are worthy of being in print. Or think they have special anecdotes to share. Or think that someone will find something worthwhile after reading some memoir or thought of theirs. Many times, an impartial judge will remind them that their lives are only remarkable to them. Sad, but true fact of psychology, I suppose.
I was raised in NY. I have lived in The South for the past 12 years. I have several degrees in philosophy. I am a disciple in Hung Gar Shaolin kung fu. I own five cats. I live in a house with something like 3,000+ books. I am only second-generation American of Russian descent. I am a touch autistic, but deny it fervently. I know (in no order of preference or importance) a nuclear engineer, the former undersecretary to the minister of information in Egypt, a former-groupie and expert on the Grateful Dead, and a woman who swears she is married to Satan. Now, tell me that you don’t think that is fodder for a whole pile of ridiculous.
If you doubt me, let me briefly mention some things: the story of the sewage-corpse, the night the neighbor was murdered, the dead-body at the movie theatre, the sofa that was stuck in the storage unit, the mop stuck in the mall elevator, and the lightning that struck the laptop. These are not even the “best” stories. These are just some of the ones off of the top of my head that really ought to be included.
Just in the last two hours, these items have been said by household members:
“One must be vigilant when it comes to those vampire terrorists.”
“You know, that even with showers of roof debris, I would still insist on linens. It is really the civilized way to go.”
“Our love is not contingent on you knowing JR Ewing.”
In the last 8 months I have: made a 3,000+ road trip in four days. Gotten a canoe stuck in a tree. Been to a funeral. Moved a piano across state lines. Had swine flu. Learned a broadsword form. Attended a no-hitter baseball game. Purchased antique Polish china. Grew habenero peppers. Been to a moonshine distillery. Got a black eye. etc.
And I’ve written things before. I have ghost written a few books. Wrote plenty of papers, theses, articles, etc. I write two blogs, though they are certainly not great quality. This year, I also wrote 900 lines of HTML code for a company I don’t work for.
My idea here is not to attain a Nobel/Pulitzer. Not to be on the NYT Bestseller’s List. Not to be on Amazon. But to (1.) write a completed thing; (2.) document and thereby amuse my people; (3.) give myself yet another project to accomplish.
Bad idea. But for a decade, stuff keeps happening that should absolutely be put in a book. And my cats are too lazy to write the book.