from a June 7, 2011 "daily write":
I wish I had a solid idea for a memoir, because the idea of writing a memoir so appeals to me. I am reading one now, on my Kindle, I forget the title. Lazy me. Okay, wait a minute. I'll go find my kindle. Hang on.
Imperfect Endings, by Zoe Fitzgerald Carter.
It's a grown 42-year-old daughter talking about the experience of being unhappily involved in her ailing mother's desire to commit assisted suicide. The book is less than 300 pages long. The writing is good but not stunning. The topic is manageable. A good topic for a memoir, set within a reasonable frame of time.
My problem would be that I would try to include everything under the sun in any memoir I might attempt to do. I am unable to see any story but The Whole Story Up To This Point. I would go nuts mixing up all my old lovers with all my pancreatic enzymes. One minute you'd be reading about Jim's mechanical flying vulvas, the next you'd be lying with me on my expensive new infrared Bio-Mat, set to 160 cancer-killing degrees, sweating like a pig and wondering how many more minutes you had to go. Another minute you'd be hearing about how my Dad once dressed up as a hobo (bag tied onto end of stick) and let me take pictures of him out in our backyard in Brigham City, Utah, for my school paper on hobos, the next minute you'd be agonizing along with me over the pros and cons of having my left breast cut off.