I have been casting about for new book ideas and it has recently occurred to me that I might want/have to write something non-fiction-ish, which is to say memoir-ish. I add the “ish” because I have a terrible memory and also I did way too many drugs for a very long time, so I’m going to be making some of this shit up if I decide to do it. It is because I am such an unreliable narrator that I have been hesitant to write my story in the past, and it is also because I do not believe my life should be held up as an example of either good or bad behavior, because I have been neither good enough or bad enough to warrant investigation. I mean, I do it here all the time, but this ain’t a book. It’s just the internet. (Yes, I know I just said a mouthful.)

And I think I have thought of myself mainly as a fiction writer for so long, it would require some sort of serious shift in my brain to hurtle me into the non-fiction zone. I said something like this to the very wise Julie Klausner on Friday (see, I can’t remember what I said three days ago), and she said (something like), “You can write a million things! You can write a novel or a short story or a memoir or a blog post or an essay. It doesn’t matter. You just write.”

I told her I wanted to write something about being alone in my life (perhaps forever), and about all of the choices I made in my life that got to me to this point of living this decidedly non-traditional American existence. (Even though, obviously, the definition of traditional has completely changed and evolved.) Because there were clearly a series of decisions that were made on my part to get me here, even if sometimes I was just choosing between the very bad option and the so-so option – sometimes that’s just what life serves up to you.

And Julie said, “Can you name three of them?” And I thought for a moment, and said, “Yes, I can.”

I feel like I would able to write this book in a really short time frame, but also that this would be the hardest book I’ve ever written. I was giddy when I came up with the idea, but in the past few days have begun to experience physical discomfort when I consider writing it. It would be about unpacking and acknowledging my past, and there’s no way to do that would admitting what an asshole I’ve been (which, actually, has never really been a problem with me; clearly I take some pleasure in my own public humiliation, and perhaps even just the possibility of fucking up pleases me), and forcing myself to confront certain things about myself that I’ve refused to write about before, or if I have it has been in a fictional sense. It would definitely not be about giving anyone any advice about anything, because I would never wish this life of mine on anyone. I mean, it suits me fine, and it’s tailored to my totally eccentric needs. But my life is kind of just for me and not anyone else.

Maybe I’ll think about this more next year. It’s kind of freaking me out right now.

Except now it’s all I can think about.

+++

A few things on the internet:

I wrote a brand-spanking-new novel, and there is a brief excerpt from it on Spork today. Read Betsy, 193 Pounds.

I interviewed Jennifer Egan about audio-related things for emusic, and you can read that here.

I forgot to link to this before, but I thought this was hilarious: I won the Jewish Literary Vigilante of the Year Award, which, like all awards I win, is totally made up.

And here is a Facebook invite for the paperback party on January 6.

(12/20/10) | 5 Comments »