I have to give memoir writers, who pour out their heart and soul for all the world to see, a tip of the hat.
I have considered memoir…for those of you who know me well, it goes without saying that you get why it was a consideration. For those of you who don’t know me, or who only know the me I let you see – well, lets just say I have a story or twelve to tell.
But when I sat down last year to pen my memoir, I became rattled, then baffled.
First – is a memoir the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? If so, do I really want my “people” to
have all that dirt know my everything?
My parents? Good God, I put them through enough already.
My kids? They think I’m superwoman, and I don’t want to ruin that for them (or me).
My in-laws? They are convinced their son married the perfect girl (well, let’s just face it – he did really).
Do I want to lay it all out there, like road kill, and wait for the vultures to pick at the brains of it all? I don’t think so.
So – I am a novelist instead. I send my kudos, my congratulations, and my condolences to writers of memoir. You folk are braver than I.