Being an author of a memoir gives me a different viewpoint on life. When something good happens, I wonder if I can write about it. When something bad happens, I’m sad of course, but I also think: Damn! This would make a good chapter! I’ve even caught myself feeling a bit jealous of the noteworthy disasters in the memoirs of others. Damn! Why can’t I be chased by dinosaurs like in Jurassic Park?
Yesterday I saw my dad and we were going through old photos when he made a comment about my weight. Three, actually, one of them being. “You sure were a chubby kid!” Instead of being hurt or annoyed as usual, I just rolled my eyes and chuckled to myself. “I gotta write about this!!” I thought. A nice change.
(What, you’re saying Jurassic Park is not a true story?)