In the past I have made passing references to scribbling my memoirs.
It’s an on-off affair where I go for weeks ignoring it and then land into a day of furious typing where I’ll lash out a couple of thousand words.
Now one thing I discovered about this exercise is that a certain amount of discretion and caution is required. There are some things I don’t write about as they are frankly boring [or maybe more boring than the stuff I am including]. Some items are irrelevant and some items are just plain disrespectful to others if put on paper. Lastly there are some subjects that are private and none of anyone’s business: little nuggets that I shall happily take to the grave.
For example, there are some things I could say about particular members of my family but what is the point? Those members are dead so I’m just tarnishing their memory just so I can somehow make some selfish point or other. Who the hell wants to know where I lost my virginity? Does anyone care? Is it important? Why would I write about fights with my brother? Again that is a trivial topic that is best forgotten because it is mundane and totally irrelevant, unless of course I wish to demonise my brother which is grossly immature and pointless.
Do I wish for fame and glory? No, I don’t. Just so long as my family remembers me then that’s fine. To claim I want a quiet life in obscurity and then not only write a book full of tacky “secrets”, get involved in a mini-series on television where I whinge and moan about my lack of privacy and do endless interviews can only mean one thing.
I need to speak to someone urgently.
Someone private who is qualified in psychiatry.