Self-Indulgence

I’m in the middle of writing a novel (pray for me) where I’ve begun incorporating events from my childhood into the plot of a fictionalized story.

Don’t worry; I’m not going to pull a Frey. I’m writing fiction and I’m ok with that.

I firmly understand the genre I’m participating in with my writing, but I’m constantly fighting the urge to throw in every weird or outlandish thing I’ve ever witnessed (yeah, there’s a lot of it) which makes me wonder if at some point I should just write a memoir.

But the moment that thought emerges I immediately reject it, because in my mind I equate beginning a memoir with the end of anything interesting happening in my life. Kind of like when a band releases a “Best of” album; sure, they may very well release new material after the “Best of” compilation, but deep down we all know they released their best material years ago, back when their eyes were bloodshot 24/7 and they were literally rock gods. Aerosmith, I’m lookin’ at you.

No memoir for me at twenty-nine. I’ll wait till I’m at least fifty, and even then I may hold back some stuff so that when I write the sequel at seventy I can present the illusion that I’ve experienced some new things.

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