Lately, I’ve been spending a
lot of time in my past. It’s an awkward, sometimes unpleasant, rather foggy
place to rummage around, and not my favorite. However, with an essay memoir of
sorts, it’s hard to avoid. I’ve spent some time in sixth grade, considered
earlier, written strait through seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh—the
last three quite briefly as I don’t remember much—returned to junior high, and
attempted to stay present. And keep a fraction of the future in mind. Such as
that paper due tomorrow.
People have told me I ought to write a memoir. As in a memoir
memoir. Not an essay but a full-blown bound book that Amazon might pick up and
sell for Kindles cheap and I could make ten cents per copy . . .
I’m not sure why. I do know
it’d take a long time. Even though, at this point, writing beyond age eighteen
seems a bit absurd. Truth is, to me, a foremost principle in creative
non-fiction. The question is, which truths? What would be worthwhile to the
readers? What creates something more than a self-indulgent exposé of Annie?
That is part of the experiment of the memoir-essay assignment in our class.
Right now, the essay
comprises of two sections: sixth grade and eighth grade. It is quite possible,
after two weeks, with one week left, that I will set it aside. Pick a different
approach. A different time. That is writing, I suppose.
No comments:
Post a Comment