I was so intrigued by the Emily Gould piece in today’s NY Times. I have been writing a book in my head for the past five years at least, but haven’t gotten around to doing much more than jot down some notes and type up a couple of pages in WORD. It is a book about my life mostly….and the kids’ lives….the chaotic events….the tragedies and the stupid mistakes…the too too many roads not taken. The way that most people’s lives unravel, I suppose. But I can’t decide if I should make it fiction, using made-up characters but real-life events (isn’t there a name for that genre?) or something more along the lines of a memoir. But then I talk myself out of it by convincing myself that the bookstores are absolutely overrun with memoirs, and who needs another inveterate navel-gazer clogging up the shelves? The biggest obstacle, in my mind, has always been: How frank could I be without hurting or offending those about whom I am writing? For example, if I write the truth about the kids’ dad and all of his shenanigans, how angry and betrayed would my kids feel? VERY, I am guessing.
I have finally started a blog, after having wanted to do so for years—but I find I rarely write new entries because I am so reluctant to be completely transparent. And who wants to read a blogger who isn’t transparent?
After consideration, I have come to the conclusion that if I am going to try to get anything published before I die, I should probably stick to writing essays. In a neutral voice.