Efforts

I'm writing a memoir. Just saying that sounds pretentious. As though I were famous, or infamous, and that people would actually be curious enough to read about my life. Hardly. But, I'm writing it anyway. What I want it to say is that in spite of all the trauma, I was a happy kid. When I told a friend that once, he was incredulous. "How can you say you had a happy childhood when all that other stuff happened?" he asked. So, my memoir is my attempt to answer that. I was a happy child, except on the days when I wasn't. And I have happy memories, except for those that aren't. I want to convey this in the memoir. But, so far, all I can seem to write is the sad stuff. I know I'm a harsh critic of my own work, but I don't think anyone wants to read a book that has them crying from the outset. Do they?

Day One

So now I have a blog. I wonder what I'm doing here. Another diversion from writing I suppose. Keeping my butt in the chair, but finding yet another way to avoid the dreaded blank page.