Coming from my background, the title of this blog, My Well-Documented Life, is both ironic and true. How can that be possible? As a writer, I want my
story told—by me. This is not a memoir. This is my reality, the everyday
ramblings of a 38 year-old who has figured out what is important in life: my children, my husband, my parents, my
brother and his family, my in-laws, myself, and my friends (and typically in
that order, too). Screw the rest of you who think you should fit somewhere in
there. Many of you don’t fit, but I let you elbow your way in for a very long
time before I came to my senses. Now, you’ll get the stiff arm or a helmet to
helmet tackle should you try. (See also 1:43 - 2:05 in this scene from High Fidelity).
I am absolutely average and
extraordinary at the same time. I am a relatively privileged, white (I think),
middle-class, educated woman who has the luxury to almost have a room of my own in which I can write. Whether or not I have the talent is certainly
up for debate. Because I believe I do have the talent and an expensive
education (from a state university no less!), I will continue writing. These
thoughts may only matter to the people snugly tucked away in my own little
corner of the world, but I blame my old days of being a college newspaper columnist
and section editor. I
believed, then, that people read what I wrote—and I wasn’t even a good writer
then! Why not take this education for a little spin, right?
Disclaimer #1: My mother and father will certainly cower in
a corner ashamed or afraid of any attention garnered by my public writing persona.
While I am, very much, a product of their parenting and upbringing, I have very
different ideologies than they do. They were fabulous parents, so please don’t
blame them for my writing (unless it is good, you like it, and/or you agree with it).
