I’m in the middle of writing a novel (pray for me) where I’ve begun incorporating events from my childhood into the plot of a fictionalized story.
Don’t worry; I’m not going to pull a Frey. I’m writing fiction and I’m ok with that.
I firmly understand the genre I’m participating in with my writing, but I’m constantly fighting the urge to throw in every weird or outlandish thing I’ve ever witnessed (yeah, there’s a lot of it) which makes me wonder if at some point I should just write a memoir.
But the moment that thought emerges I immediately reject it, because in my mind I equate beginning a memoir with the end of anything interesting happening in my life. Kind of like when a band releases a “Best of” album; sure, they may very well release new material after the “Best of” compilation, but deep down we all know they released their best material years ago, back when their eyes were bloodshot 24/7 and they were literally rock gods. Aerosmith, I’m lookin’ at you.
No memoir for me at twenty-nine. I’ll wait till I’m at least fifty, and even then I may hold back some stuff so that when I write the sequel at seventy I can present the illusion that I’ve experienced some new things.