I’m going to write a memoir. Where that desire came from, I guess I’ll never know. For 20 years I’ve thought I had to be famous before anyone would care to read much about my life. Then along came the idea of blogging.
Do you realize there are people out there we’ve never heard of writing about themselves, their desires, their accomplishments, every day of the week. Now, with millions of people online every day, does that constitute a huge readership? I doubt it. And probably a lot of blogs go without ever being read. So perhaps it’s all in the process, after all, and has nothing to do with fame. We write about ourselves because we have a deep need to do so. Probably thinking that simply in the doing we are leaving our footprints.
What amazes me are the comments I get from people I don’t know. Isn’t it wonderful that they took the time to read my words? Words about myself. Who’d have thought they cared.
Over the years I’ve made a lot of friends in the writing business. Actually, friends is what we call those acquaintances which we greet with a hug, some conversation and laughter, each time we meet. I know them, they know me, even if sometimes we forget each other’s names, we do recognize the face. Everywhere I go, no matter how far away, I see someone I recognize who also recognizes me.
What could this mean? I’m growing curious about the “six degrees of separation” idea. It’s jarringly astounding to think that in this world of billions, we are all interconnected so closely.
I had my photograph taken at a recent writer’s gathering. The photographer was super patient and very professional. He was also kind enough to smooth some wrinkles and dark spots from my aging skin. It still looks like me, though. You’ll know me when you see me if all you’ve ever known is this picture. I opted to go without the hat, a trademark of sorts, but you’ll probably see me wearing it once in a while, when the moods suits me.
So I thought, okay, why not post it so people can get used to seeing the older me, the one who’s earned the gray hair and laugh lines over years of dealing with editors and publishers and agents, or leading workshops, speaking at conferences, being published, being rejected, losing faith in my talent, finding that faith again.
So you know what? I’m working on a memoir, and if anyone wants to read it, well, then that’ll be great. But if I’m not famous enough for you to care what I’ve done in my life, then it’s okay if you bypass it for the latest on Sarah Palin or Barack Obama. My feelings won’t be hurt. Not at all.