I removed my most recent post solely because I didn't like it.
Sometimes I say so much of nothing that I annoy myself. I didn't delete it - I reverted it to a draft and kept the comments (Myra, Paula, LadyHawthorne).
It's pouring rain. Again. And again and again....Once in awhile I Google pictures of the sun just to remember what it looks like. That was lame, but I'm not in a funny mood.
I'm considering moving to Saudi Arabia. Sure, they get occasional rain but I've never seen a wet camel.....and I've never seen fifteen-foot-high weeds in the Rub al Khali (like they are in my yard).
I'm used to dust storms and Haboobs. Heck, I lived in West Texas.
And I feel comfortable in sheik garb.
Don't laugh. I'm an old man. I looked a helluva lot better twenty years ago. Okay, maybe forty.
By the way, I'm the one on the right.
Remember that children's book I wrote last autumn? I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Last night I re-read it and it's surprisingly good. I'm sending it to some publishers.
I just started writing the book about the 1906 murder in New Jersey and my great-uncle who was hanged for the crime (mentioned in one of my previous posts).
I researched that story for several years, published an article on it, and have a surplus of information. Yet, I'm still finding new information that I never knew (via the Internet). I'm amazed.
After careful consideration and major trepidation, I'm also finally writing my memoirs.
I used to jokingly say that I'm the most interesting person I know - but sometimes I almost believe it.
I figure it's better to write it now before senility sets in - if it hasn't already.
There's a trend with bloggers lately - especially popular bloggers (which I'm very definitely not):
they're all writing memoirs. I've read some of them on Amazon - and most are blase. Nothing interesting happened in their lives.
I endured one extremely long chapter about a 1963 trip to the drive-in movies. And I read several chapters about a quirky uncle who drank beer while watching Bowling for Dollars in his underwear.
I don't really give a flying fig.
Trouble is - writing truthfully about oneself is extremely difficult. Revealing all is even more difficult. Not to mention humiliating.
My life has definitely been unique. And colorful. There were many incredibly good times, but even many more brutally bad ones - the ravages of which devastated me emotionally. I never fully recovered.
I could easily write two books: my innocent childhood and my recklessly wild adulthood of destruction and debauchery.
I have an incredible memory. I can remember things from when I was only a few months old.
Well, this blog post turned out to be even longer and more crappy than my previous one was.
It's far too late to quit while I'm ahead.