3.04.2015

wednesday

30 days, 30 pages with writing on them. That's the deal.



25. 

I read that a downside of writing memoir is that if you do it right you will have told the truth, and no one will ever love you for telling the truth. And I want to be loved.

This is why I will write fiction.

I'll tell stories that never happened to anyone I know. Stories of giant fathers who work and fly on airplanes and build worlds, commute, play ball, carry wallets and are encyclopedias, men who made themselves out of nothing but somehow are in everything; stories of mothers who have been there since before anyone can remember, beautiful women who are ironing or ill, on phones or having their hair done, cleaning, cooking, napping while reading or waiting in cars, watching TV or running errands, buying lunch, making threats and cookies or singing to themselves while they vacuum; stories of brothers and sisters who slam doors or tell secrets, invite or shun, share or withhold, fight or invent the universe, play chopsticks and hopscotch, build and borrow, snack and steal, hide in forts and sleep next to each other every night to begin again the next day; stories of grandfathers and grandmothers, larger and older than history, secret keepers who carry all of the legends in their heads, answers and indulgence in their purses, and in their pockets, candy. Aunts and cousins who blur lines and read for other parts. Strangers who come along and change everything. Houses with closets, dens, kitchens and a wide variety of couches. 

In my stories people will be born, love, tell lies, do heroic deeds, start fires, pray, get bored, die, hit, kiss, suffer, cry, wrinkle, learn truths, grow, disappoint, fail, win, dance, forgive, come home, yell, act surprised, eat ice cream, drive convertibles, make families, write letters, break hearts, bake, and travel alone to new and exotic places.

There may be pets.

If you see in any of my stories a small girl, short hair, haphazard and in homemade clothes, squinting or shivering, observant, still awake, overly talkative and generally anxious, unremarkable but who seems somehow familiar--I cannot explain, so please don't ask.

I'll refer you instead to my policy which is official, starting now, and says this: Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.