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.