I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my writing; it appears to me that one must write about what they know, or at least have the patience for thorough research.
As I have none of the latter, the former eludes me. I’ve done so many different things, but is there one thing about which I know enough about to create an interesting read?
I expanded on that thought to entertain the idea of writing my autobiography. How egotistical of me, I know. But it goes beyond ego.
I have always believed that every life is a story. This is one of the reasons that I write this blog (however sporadically). There are numerous readers out there, lurking, who keep tabs on my ‘adventures’, and though I may never know who they are, I know you’re there. Is my blog about ego? Definately not. I don’t advertise it, I don’t claim to be the most interesting person on the blogosphere, nor to I believe I’m leading the most interesting life ever.
A few years ago, I was living with Miss Love, and her friend, a film-maker, came to stay with us to document Miss Love’s life in a few days…day to day tasks, how she got to where she is now, etc. I remember thinking at the time that if this girl-film-maker were forced to follow me around for four days, she’d be bored out of her skull.
But do I think my life as a whole is interesting? Indeed. When I search through my personal history, I’ve experienced a lot. And when my ex-aunt asked me how I got to be so wise, I replied (quite stoically, I remember, or perhaps it was just condescension); ‘I’ve lived a long life’. I was 25.
Some questions emerge: Do I think my life is more interesting than others? No, of course not. But I look around at all these movies coming out now about the lives of famous people: Capote, Johnny Cash, Ali, Ray Charles; and I wonder, ‘Would we care about these lives if they hadn’t been famous?’
Of course, every other movies is trip through the life of someone we don’t know, an exploration of a fictional character as they experience some sort of life-changing transition, something defining. Mostly the ‘cinderella’ stories, the ‘bad guy turns good’, etc. But what about real lives? Real and honest journeys which every day people face?
It’s often perplexed me how many people there are in the world. Just sitting on the subway train, I see the young girl sitting across from me and I wonder, ‘Where did she come from? And where is she going?’
Perhaps the autobiography isn’t for me. But maybe the idea of it has spawned a new idea: the idea that every life is interesting in its own way. And out there are readers who will be interested, perplexed, or maybe find comfort in similarity.
Every life is important; even those which aren’t crying out for someone to tell their story.
And I’d like to be the storyteller.
