This book.

It is the book I have been trying to write my entire life.

This frustrating, never ending book.

I have a little boy now, Ethan.

He is six.

A wealth of energy, a boisterous sack of convoluted emotions.

He is growing fast, trying to figure out who he is, who I am, where he came from.

Who are these people he calls family?

“Mommy tell me stories about when you were a little girl!”

Those precious bright beseeching eyes, soliciting from me information.

There are so many stories; I don’t know where to begin.

I rack my brain for the funny ones; those are the ones that boys of six like best.

But then there are the sad ones, the important ones that teach lessons.

Those I’ll save for later.

It’s part of what makes this so difficult.

What is the tone? How do I write this? How much do I tell and what should be held back?

There is always the illusive Unwritten Story of every book about real life.

Do I want to write one of those?

The truth can be so ugly.

I can write the ugly truth in a beautiful way. That might be interesting.

I get sick of beginning the book and it doesn’t go the way I like it so I start over.

I do this again and again and again.

There’s so many ways to tell the stories.

I cannot seem to figure out which one is the best.

Which is most honest without being cruel.

Whether to ‘fudge it’ or not.

Maybe I should hang it up and write something else all together.

Children’s books.

For now.

I thinking of it.

God.

I change my mind too much.

I wish I could just commit and stick with it.

I’m thinking that one day I will sit down and it will flow like it does in the beginning and just continue until it is done instead of turning into this painful extraction of memory.

Some of the words are like poetry to me, I love them and wonder where I got them from, then they slowly flow out into mush, slosh,

A disgusting goo of pish posh that wouldn’t move a bump on a log much less a human heart.

That’s when I get frustrated with myself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing! I have no business writing a book! This is a romantic dream!”

(I AM a hopeless romantic you know)

“Why did I ever think I could do this! I don’t even have a formal education! I have no papers! No right! No…. no…. Anything!”

Then I cry.

Should I feel inclined.

Then I listen to hear if I’ve answered myself.

In all these years, I usually never have.

Then I hang it up for the evening or afternoon or whatever time of the day it is and pick it up again on another.

It’s a hateful process.

You see why I’m so frustrated?

Anyhow.

I do feel better, every once in awhile, complaining about it – because one day I will finally get it out and then it will be done.

I have decided though that there is a very good chance it will not be any time soon.

I think I may be into my 40’s before I produce any great work really worth reading.

But a great work it will be.

Haha.

Somewhere, a long time ago I read that if you are not your own biggest fan, who then will be?

I took that to heart.

I have to tell you a story later on about hank’s aunt Mamie who years and years ago (forgive me, for I may convolute the details a bit)

Aunt Mamie being a teenager, 17 or 18 – graduated high school or did something grand of that sort and bring so proud of her self went out, bought herself a new dress and a dozen red roses.

She then went out and had her picture taken (this was in the 40’s I think) and somewhere that picture hangs, Aunt Mamie, being her very biggest fan, smiling like there is not a care in the world.

If that’s not a grand thing, I sir don’t know what is.





PS – I went out without my walker today – Almost made me have MY picture taken!