I went to a workshop yesterday put on by my chapter of the League of Utah Writers. The speaker was Dawn Marano, who was a figure skater, is now an editor and has written her own memoir. It was an interesting talk, and it got me digging around in my own past wondering – do I have anything to write a memoir about?
I’m not sure how interesting I am, really. Life has been so good to me. That was my immediate reaction to the question.
But I’ve thought a bit about my childhood. I wasn’t abused or anything. But when other people talk about their isolation, and about how it is a pretty universal thing to feel, I wonder: were they at the bottom of the social totum pole through out elementary school and junior high? Did they have glasses and a speech impediment in first grade, and a teacher who sat them in the ‘bad students’ table? Did they get excited about moving during elementary school, because maybe the kids in the new school wouldn’t know that they were social anethema and be friends? Only to be disappointed because, having been diagnosed so early on with a case of “If I go near you, kids will make fun of me” my social skills really were poor.
There were things I learned as an adult, social wise, that for my own good I probably should have known when I was 10-12. There are ways in which I am still deficient, I fear. I can handle one on one. I have no fear of talking to large groups of people. But put me in a room with a handful of people and I clam up. It’s all going too fast for me to participate, though I generally enjoy watching them.
I don’t think I could write a memoir interesting enough forÂ New York, but maybe it would still be interesting to explore.