As a kid, I remember being rushed through my storytelling – in everyone’s defense, my stories got a little wordy and elaborate; full of “um’s” and pauses while I searched for the right string of adjectives. I started to feel self-conscious about talking though, so I stopped doing so much of it and turned to paper and pen – eventually writing poems and letters I’d never send.
20+ years later, here I am.
Writing about Star Wars and weird dreams, mostly, but still.
I read an article last summer about kids who take forever to tell stories. Kids who pause, kids who articulate, kids whose parents are like “DOES THIS STORY HAVE AN END, JUST SPIT IT OUT ALREADY.”
The article talked about how those kids often grow up to be some of the greatest storytellers and that was the day that I decided “ok, well then I think I’ll try and write a book!” Because maybe there’s a great storyteller in here somewhere…
It was late at night, I dunno.
Fast forward to yesterday, when I haven’t written a lick of that ‘book,’ but instead am just now getting around to Googling “how to write your memoirs and why on earth would anyone want to read them.”
One site said that it helps to make people laugh and that in an effort not to piss people off with your writing, criticize yourself as much as – or even more than – you would criticize anyone else in your story and so I’m feeling prrrrretty confident because self-deprecating humor is my jam.