Finish My Memoir
I resolved to write this book on January 1, 2014, and I still haven’t
finished it yet. At last count, I had 61,132 words, which is nothing to sneeze
at, but sneeze at it I must. 61,132 words really, really ought to be, if
nothing else, a complete, coherent draft. It is not. It is disorganized and
incomplete, and try as I might to correct this situation, it just keeps getting
longer, more disorganized, and more incomplete.
This makes the second time I have tried, and failed, to
write a book, if you count my undergraduate honors thesis, for which I was
inexplicably given academic credit in spite of the fact that it was a steaming
piece of sh*t. Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe I should start a whole new
memoir. The third time is, after all, the charm.
Write in My Diary Every Day
One of the biggest problems I have as a memoirist and
essayist is remembering the things that happened to me. I’m working on this
memoir, see above, and I’ll be wondering about some important plot point, like
when did my grandmother die, for example, but I won’t be able to remember the
exact date. So, after tearing the house apart looking for a copy of the
obituary that I know I have
somewhere, I’ll resort to digging up my old Facebook posts from six years ago,
trying to reconstruct the events of my own life.
I used to keep a diary. Beginning at some point in grade
school and continuing throughout middle and high school and into the first year
of college, I wrote in my diary every single day, even if it was just one word.
I had to do it. Then I had therapy
and realized that I didn’t have to do it, so I stopped. I took it back up again
for a few years, when I was with my psycho ex, but then I stopped again – the obvious
pattern here is that I only keep a diary if I’m miserable, or backpacking
across Europe.
If I’d been more consistent in my diary-keeping, I’d have so much more material, plus I’d be able
to remember vital details about things, like the day I ate a panini for the
first time and thought it was the best sandwich I’d ever tasted, so I spent the
next nine months chasing that virgin panini high until I finally accepted that
there was only one good panini in the world, and I’d already eaten it.
The thing is that I’m not in the habit of writing in my
diary every day anymore, so I keep forgetting, and then after I’ve forgotten a
few times, my default habit of not writing
sets in and I end up not doing it for the next six months, until the diary
itself turns up again. Plus, I resent feeling like I have one more thing I have
to do every day – first it’s eat; then it’s eat and take a bath; then it’s eat,
take a bath, and brush your teeth; then it’s eat, take a bath, brush your
teeth, and make the bed; before you know it you’re 35 years old, your back
hurts, and you’re busy from the time you wake up to the time you go to sleep.
But I still need to keep a diary so I’m gonna try doing it every second or
third day instead.
Finish My Peacock Feather Afghan
Some time ago now – I’m not sure when because I didn’t write
it down in my diary that I don’t keep – I decided I wanted to crochet a peacock
feather afghan. But I didn’t want to pay for the pattern, so I found a peacock
feather pattern on a random person’s blog and just decided I’d make a bunch of
these little peacock feathers, and then sew them together.
Problem is, the peacock feathers I wound up with are tiny.
They’re like five inches high. I’ve got about eighty of them and I’m going to
need to make approximately seven billion more to have enough to make an afghan.
Knowing my luck, they probably won’t even fit together well.
I thought I’d resolve to finish the peacock feather afghan
this year, but I’d probably have to make like five peacock feathers a day just
to have a shot at it. Realistically, I’m going to finish this peacock feather
afghan when I’m eighty-two years old. I’ll have them bury me in it.
Lose Fifty Pounds
Oh sure, I’d really like to lose fifty pounds, but who am I
kidding? At this rate, Jim’ll be lucky if I don’t just up and eat him someday.
I’m not trying to sound defeatist, but I’m not trying to set myself up for
failure, either. I think I’ll aim for something more attainable, like “stop
eating expired food.” That’s probably a good idea, at least until we get that
universal health care we’ve had our eye on.
