Yesterday, while cooling off in Rainbow Bridge, sipping some kind of chocolate-frozen banana-almond milk smoothie, a woman I hadn’t seen in awhile sat down near me and said the most curious thing. She was asking about my family, my yoga classes, and then she wondered if I’d written any more books. I tried to explain that I was branching out into memoir writing. “That’s what we do when we get old,” I added, by way of justification. When I mentioned that the first one, “a kind of dating memoir,” was published a few months ago, and that I was working on another one, she gave me the most incredulous look. She said, ” You say you never leave Ojai — you hardly ever go out—how can you have that much to write about? I wouldn’t think that much has happened to you that you could write a whole book about your life.”
I’m sure she didn’t quite mean it the way it came out but it did sound like she thought that someone whose life was as boring and uninteresting as mine could not possibly fill up a whole book. But I always thought that if we all dug deep enough each and every one of us would have a rolling riveting story to tell. . . .a story that would blast the image we have of each other right out of the water. . . .
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