Why - by Sue

I am not famous. No one checks The Huffington Post to see what I did that day, and 50 years (or much less, probably) after I am dead, no one will ever know or care that I lived. All of the little souvenirs I have saved out of sentimental value will probably mean nothing to anyone. My father's watch, for example, will be one more rusting trinket in a land fill. Still, I wrote a memoir, and no one will care except, for the present, a few people whose lives have intersected with mine.

I did not write an autobiography for posterity, recording for historical purposes. I don't care whether future generations in the next century and beyond know when I went bird watching or started high school. Those dates are not important. I did not write a diary, just for my eyes. I wrote a memoir for anyone who might find it interesting. Maybe someone who just likes to read memoirs will enjoy it. Maybe someday my grandchildren will want to see what Maw Maw did way back in the 20th Century. Maybe it reads like a story, which is what I had hoped. But unlike a story, it's all true. I had recalled many events that reared their ugly heads as I clacked on my keyboard, complete with flaming nostrils, horns and warts. But they were only ghosts and I made them vaporize.

I wrote what I remember from true events, as accurately as I could. Some names were changed. And it's not memories of my entire life up until now, but only the first years, when the jello was still liquid and could be poured into any shape mold. I didn't write in any defined sequence or chronology. I wrote the emotions that came from events, and, like in anyone's life, are what shaped the mold.

I was asked why I would do such a thing. Why would I not just "move on?" Forget things. Let it go. Forgive. My answer is blank, other than the fact that I like to write, and always have. I went on my happy-ass way a long time ago. When I was eight, it was easy to invent stories with the main character overcoming odds, the result of an uninhibited, naive imagination. Now, it's impossible. There are rules when it comes to writing, and it should be honest. So, in a memoir, I allowed myself the pleasure of describing scenes and characters as long as it was the truth. It had nothing to do with "moving on" or letting anything go. It just had to do with writing. It had to do with crossing the first hurdle first, before mixing it up with made up stuff. I had to get the real thing out first, because that was what was boiling at the top.

I had it printed by an "on demand" printer, and it arrived yesterday. I have a few changes to make, and will order more copies. And then when it's completely done, who knows?