I cannot imagine my life as any different from the next Tom, Dick, and Harry - or should that be Jane, Sue, and Mary? Yet, for some strange reason, readers keep leaving comments saying I should bundle all these stories into a memoir.
There can’t be anyone, ANYONE, interested in reading about my life. Yawn!
My existence is static considering the exciting dramas happening right at this very moment. Tears are falling along the downtrodden’s faces. The meek are rising into unlikely heroes. Some ditzy celebrity singer is going back into rehab for the umpteenth time and has decided to do a tell-all just to tick off her three ex-boyfriends. And sex-starved madams are ratting out their political clientele.
Really, take your pick . . . martyrs . . . heros . . . celebrity scandals . . . sex and money . . .
There’s way more entertainment value to be found than the short bits I post here at my humble blog. My childhood is considered lethal in most medical journals do to its lethargy in causing apoplectic shock. Do you want to deal with that? Do you want people to buy flowers for your grave site?
Okay, sure, so a few things happened during my early days that made for good reading fodder: a racial episode, a shoplifting one-timer, a broken-down car, having sock wars, being in my first play, acting in my first video, and acting in my second play.
Yet those stories are only in spurts - dim instances into the bigger picture of my memories. They can’t be enough to fill an entire book’s worth of lines. What possible hook would I have to keep a reader interested through all 350 pages?
A whimsical African-American girl who grew up in a dysfunctional hillbilly family in a strictly white town uncovers a secret that ruins the lives of two out of three siblings . . .
Oh please! Break out the barf bags. Even if I mentioned all the drugs, racism, sex, lies, and rain dances placed within a farm setting, this will still leave readers rolling their eyes before tossing the book into the heaping pile marked, “Been there - done that - fell asleep twice during the movie.”
Anyway, to those readers leaving comments about this memoir thing, GOOD real-life books are already out there begging for someone to read them. Go pick up one and sink yourself into their lives. I have nothing interesting to tell . . .
. . . well, I might . . .