A continuation of my previous post
Will my life ever be an open book?
I just discarded nearly 200 pages. No lie. It's in the trash. Attempting to write my memoirs is much more difficult than I thought.
I have no trouble coming up with spontaneous fluff for this blog. Excavating the deeply personal realms of one's life, however, isn't easy. Facing the raw truth can be an extremely jolting experience. Presenting it with honesty and objectivity is more than a challenge.
Piecing together the fragments of a massive puzzle and presenting the result with a semblance of coherence and credulity is a near impossibility.
And perhaps most important is this:
since I completely baffle myself most of the time, how is it possible to convey a plausible self-portrait to others?
My thought process and writing skills aren't that advanced.
There's one thing I've decided for certain:
My memoirs will have to be in two volumes. I not only have a lot to tell, it needs to be divided into two separate realms - innocence and debauchery.
The first book will cover my childhood years, probably through high school.
The second will recount my post-adolescence descent into hell.
One staggering (not to mention annoying) aspect of my entire life is the monumental complexity of it. It's overflowing with inconsistencies, contradictions, complications, and unexplained polar forces that are in a constant battle pulling me to opposing ends of the gamut.
Good vs Evil?
Saint or Sinner?
The subject of my father's violence and abuse could cover an entire book in itself. The severe psychological impact it had on me resulted in a complete mental and physical collapse by the time I was 18. It's humiliating and painful to remember - but I managed to pull myself out of it without any help other than my own determination.
There were good times in my childhood, of course, but they were inevitably tainted and overshadowed by the bad ones.
Another thing to consider when writing my memoirs is the Mirror of Raw Reality.
An honest assessment of myself doesn't reveal a very likeable person. My flaws, weaknesses, mistakes, vices, selfishness, and extreme emotional immaturity aren't exactly inspiring.
And there are no happy endings.
I don't have any Come to Jesus moments.
I can't offer any endearing or enduring advice.
There is no substantial or satisfying apotheosis, except the fact that I happened to survive an incredibly destructive and wild ride.
A potent postscript:
When it comes to memoirs, putting your real name on the byline is a form of suicide. You're submitting your entire private existence to brutal public scrutiny and possible human sacrifice.
Not to mention potential law suits.....
I've learned the hard way while writing this blog (there are a helluva lot of vicious loonies out there)
How much worse will it be with a book?
I mean TWO books.
(should a wry *smile* be inserted here?)
Jon
High School
when I was unbearably innocent
