Tuesday, June 1, 2010


I tend to get sucked into memoirs that I can't put down. This last memoir, "Her Last Death" was pretty disturbing. Doug was puzzled by the fact that I couldn't wait for it to be finished and I treated the read like something I had to get done. I was hoping for a little light to shine, but really nothing brightened the pages. Don't even pick up "Running with Scissors." I cut that one short around the 5th chapter. The review said it was disturbingly funny. What does that mean?! It was nothing but disturbing. I'm now reading Anne Lamott and I'm going to stick with her.
There are two common threads in all the memoirs I've read. The authors have major dysfunction in their childhoods' and they have a great passion for reading at a young age.
I've been taking great pride watching Maegan devour books and even reading as she walks about. But the other day I feared, "What will she write about me in her memoir?" Will she remember with fondness, "My mom was obsessed with healthy foods, and sent us to bed with nightmares of bio engineered foods." Or, "My mom's love for everything natural instilled in us a love for the smell of rain, and the satisfaction of eating meat that still smelled like the farm." (I'm not really that healthy, but I do rant about it).
You never know which lens your children are going to use to remember you. I'm hoping for quirky and endearing not controlling and naggy. I think the lens depends on the birth order of the child.
Another thing that strikes me about memoirs is the ability of the authors to remember stuff that happened at 3 years old and events that don't really seem that memorable. Maybe I'll start writing Maegan's memoir for her since I can get the memories right :)
Or, maybe her childhood won't be dysfunctional enough to make a best seller. But, I would like it to be interesting enough to write about; dysfunction makes good life lessons!