I’m supposed to be doing a series of blog posts about memoir writing. All I have to do is dole out insightful, inspiring, useful, and easy-to-adapt advice on the tricky art of telling one’s very own story. Easy-peasy, right?
Except, holy moly, there are distractions everywhere! [Engage whine mode] I’ve got classes to prepare for and teach, memoirs to edit, novels to critique, and a brand new book of my own to finish. So, of course, my fourth grandchild chooses this exact moment to enter the world. So much for focus! Thankfully, the little guy and his mom are hale and hearty, if a might tuckered just now.
And yes, I fully admit that referring to a sweet, innocent newborn as a “distraction” is a crime that oughta be dealt with harshly. (I’m pretty sure Grammaw will take care of that.)
But–wait!–there’s more: the yard has become either a wilderness or the setting for the next apocalypse movie; we have half a house worth of inherited furniture that needs some sort of disposition; the pond is a disaster (the goldfish have petitioned for transfer to “real” water, and not the greenish, icky, gelatinous goo they now call home), and my to-do list has been apportioned into multiple volumes. [Whine mode off]
So, how in the hell did I reach this sad state? What member of what pantheon did I affront? Whose celestial Cheerios have I contaminated? [Oops! Apparently, whine mode wasn’t fully disengaged. It is, now.]
I got here by living my life, getting involved, having family and friends, and loving just about every minute of it. The distractions, such as they are, boil down to being reminders of how damned lucky I am. (See my buddy, Nic, in the accompanying photo? Who wouldn’t be happy to have someone this cool in his life? And he’s but one of four now!)
So, yeah, sometimes I forget the order in which certain things oughta be done. But that’s pretty small spuds in the grand scheme o’ things.
I’m happy, even if I’m a tad outta focus.