Last year I decided to write an autobiography. I started, as you might expect, at the beginning–with my childhood. I got to high school about 10,000 words in, and then I stopped.
The problem? I began to run into unflattering things about myself and I wondered how honest I was really going to be about them. Also, I began to think that what I had written so far was, well, whiny. Even self-pitying. I do have a tendency to feel sorry for myself. It’s a character flaw I struggle with. But it is in no way the main thrust of my story. The scope of the book would have to be much larger to encompass it all properly.
These issues were daunting. They gave me pause. And so I have paused, for many months. But maybe it’s time to get back to it.
It’s a bit early to think about titles. And Dave Eggers has already used A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius as the title of his 2000 memoir, so that’s out. But Facebook recently threw me a bone when it reminded me that six years ago I posted about a dream I had. In it, a book had been published under my name titled A Book I Have Written: The Complete Ingeniousness of Utter Madness. Also, in the dream I was aware that I had not actually written the book.
To which I would add, six years later: yet. It’s good enough for a working title anyway.