In this week’s writing challenge, mine your memory and write a memoir.
So I’m thinking of embarking on a course of selective memory loss. There are pitfalls, of course: can I ever be 100% certain that the pie fiasco won’t be useful one day? Or that visions of self with egg on face and feet in mouth won’t be essential fodder for write what you know? And am I prepared to take that risk?
It would be much easier, of course, if I could swallow the lot holus bolus and see it as all part of the rich tapestry that is me. But that presupposes that I see myself as a rich tapestry, which is laughable. More of an old sock, really. There are certainly some niftily artistic darns, but also a lot of unsightly cobbles executed in haste to keep the thing hanging together. Why fill it with memories I’d rather discard, and risk it falling apart?
My son points out from time to time that in order to write something worthwhile, I need to mine the rich vein of mental rubble laid down by trauma, disaster, blood, tears and mayhem. But I say, if that’s what it takes, I’d rather stick to writing worthless fluff.