What I Want
This blog was supposed to be the start of a new memoir. Actually, I was writing both simultaneously, at first. I'd wanted to focus on my father, since the last memoir's heart really was my mom. I mapped it out in my head, this new memoir, drawing a parallel between my being born and my father's inability top handle that role, with my own new job of dad and how I'd do. I also planned on weaving in my ill-fated second marriage, relapse, and motorcycle accident that left me with hardware in my pelvis and in need of a new hip at 40.
But plans change.
I suppose I will eventually get back into the memoir, which last count was around 20,000 words, and like all first drafts, a sprawling, incoherent mess. I found that dividing my attention between that project and this blog, that I looked forward to the one, and while I don't want to say "dreaded" the other, I will say, it was a lot more work.
Which is what writing is supposed to be, I know. But work takes time, and that is like water in Vegas, a precious commodity.
In addition to the brevity, I think it's the immediacy of this blog that appeals to me. I have people who read it every day, as opposed to a memoir that may or may not see the light of day. I've always fancied myself a "man of the people" sort. I did my best to fit into academia, but I I'm not sure I am that kind of writer. I am also not sure I am a fiction or non-fiction writer. Not sure what that leaves. Maybe Keith Richards, who responded after being asked if he considered himself a rhythm or lead guitarist--"Man, I play guitar." I write.
There was a time when I wanted to be Jack Kerouac. I figured I could hop freighters and live on the tops of mountains, eat beans from a can, maybe befriend a squirrel I could name "Tuk Tuk." But then I turned 24, and Kerouac doesn't mean as much when you turn 24. Or maybe he does, but the idea of using a rucksack for a pillow becomes less interesting the older you get. Of course, I did use a rucksack for a pillow, and like Jack, I took a lot of long Greyhound rides, with the truck stops and the pretty girls who make graves. Even thinking about it now, how I used to run and run only makes me tired.
Justine and her friend, Nancy, were talking about Justine's bachelorette party this Saturday, as Justine continued to tell me it's OK if I want to have a stripper for my bachelor party. I was married to a stripper. I don't want to go see one. A Yankee game and all-you-can-eat steak. That's what I want.