On writing the best memoir(s) ever

It's Sunday morning, cold, sunny, a bit too breezy. The light snow ended about an hour ago. There was just enough to cover up the previous snows that had become dirty-looking. I'm glad there wasn't more because I'm getting worried about hubby shoveling all this white stuff, especially the kind the weather forecasters have been calling "heart-attack snow."

After church, we all met for breakfast at a favorite restaurant. We caught up with family and a friend, and saw the grandkids come in with their "Uncle" Mike and "Grandpa" Terry. The guys have quite the extended family and it was good to see them enjoying a big breakfast.

It's been a reflective time, these past few days. I saw a fascinating piece on the show Sunday Morning, about a memoirist who's written five memoirs. I recorded the program so I could watch it again and take notes because I've been awfully ticked off lately about celebrities who are paid gazillions of dollars for their memoirs (read: Britney Spears), and that means there's not a whole lot of money left to pay those of us who aren't famous folks.

It didn't help that there have been *fake* memoirs in the public eye lately. Between too much dough being thrown at those who most definitely do NOT need it, and ordinary folks making up their life stories, the rest of us could feel like giving up. But I don't plan on doing that - I simply can't.

One thing I remember from the show this morning - the guy said he had to write down his life, he simply had to. That's exactly how I feel. It's got to come out, but now I think I have a guideline to go by. I needed that because I need structure. And the other cool thing about this guy was that he and his brother don't remember things exactly the same way. That's how life is, we don't always remember things exactly the same way. That said, it's important to add that this doesn't mean the writer is lying, it just means he or she remembers in their own way.

As for me, I can't even wrap my mind around lying in a memoir. What would be the point?

I'm looking forward to writing my memoirs now, and that means I'm thankful to whoever that guy was - excuse me while I watch that piece again. Every memoirist should check this guy out.

This, that and the other

(This photo/artwork adorns the cover of my novel, "The Elephant in the Room", a work I completed last November for National Novel Writing Month.)

The past few weeks have been a bit stressful.

First, we were hoping hard to hear from our oldest son. The last time we saw him was before Christmas in 2002. The last time we heard his voice was on the telephone, and that was March 21, 2003. Then, of course, he wrote a letter, mostly intended for me, his mother, and all I can say is: We never, ever, ever taught him to speak to his parents that way.

Still, a son is a son and we love him. We wish we knew where he was, if he's alive, sick or well, happy or not - anything, just to stop the wondering. I'm not sure his dad does the same, but I often get my hopes up around special times, like anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving. We wonder if he is working somewhere, if he's still in the United States. It's heartbreaking to have his boys ask us if we know where he is only to have them obviously disbelieve you when you tell them you have no idea where their dad is.

Second, we've had a lot of sudden expense and other trials over the past few weeks. The boiler shut down two nights in a row this week, just as the temps hit double-digits BELOW ZERO. One morning it was 53 in the house, the next morning it was 49. We got things going again, and we're keeping the thermostat at 67. Kind of chilly, especially this time of year.

Third, our like-new tire kept going flat on us (on the car) so we had to have it repaired. Funny story: hubby put Fix-A-Flat in the tire so he could get it to the shop to be repaired only to find out that if one uses that product, the store usually refuses to repair the tire. They're more than happy to offer to install a new tire, but they won't repair the current one. We finally found someone, and it seems to be OK now, but it set us back a bit.

Fourth, yesterday the washer went out. Something was buzzing and the smell was awful. Almost all of my work clothes were in the dirty cold water and now the washer is torn apart in the back room and the clothes are wet and I need to hop in the car and toddle off to the laundromat in this frigid winter weather. Fun.

Fifth - this brings up the wandering thoughts I've been having about finding out I have a few half-siblings who are not hurting a bit for money. Mom was married to their dad for a very brief time, and after Dad died, I got zippo. Nothing. I'm mentioned in his will for a few grand but there were stipulations that had something to do with his wife also passing away. She has refused any contact with me; for some reason, she just seems to hate me, as if I had anything to do with my own birth and existence.

I found that my half-siblings are living quite the life. I even wrote to my half-sis once, including my maiden name along with my married one. She was pleasant enough, and quick to answer my real estate questions, but she did not acknowledge our sisterhood so I guess all my sibs hate me too. Or at least they're choosing to ignore me as though I don't exist.

Sometimes, life isn't fair that way and we just have to suck it up and deal with it. The way I am handling this is to write my memoirs. I've taught others how to do that, and I've even helped a family member or two with theirs. It's my turn now, and I truly believe that the only way to get all of this stuff out of my head before it drives me around the bend is to get it down on paper.

It'll be such a relief. I recommend that everyone give it a try.