A Memoir
So I signed up for Nanowrimo and November is gona go down in history as the month that this red haired dude typed word after word trying to come up with some sort of book of 50,000 words and 175 pages. But not just any book, a fucking memoir my friends because if it's not enough having me talking about me-me-me-me-me every day in this humble little blog, then an awesome memoir is just the next logical step. And seriously, is there anything out there other than me?
The story that I'm planning to tell is a true story. . . I know memoir=true story but you never know who bumps into this blog asking wtf is a memoir. It happened to this cool foreigner several years ago, to be more precise in 1999, and to be even more precise it happened in January '99 during the dead cold of winter. It happened in a foreign country, one that spreads from Asia all the way to Europe, and my friends the shit hit the fan back in those days in my world.
The question is not whether it is worth writing 50,000 words about that story, the question is if this red haired man is capable of such task. No need to mention that Englisch is not my mother tongue, a quick look a my posts may give you some clues on the way I butch the English grammar day in day out, but aren't literary agents and editors suppose to correct whatever mistakes you've done? Well, mine would do that whether they like it or not once this book is done.
So November is Nanowrimo month. . . and perhaps there wouldn't be many updates on my daily life that anyways has turned out very z z z z z z z z z z z z z lately. But the good thing of all this stupid idea is that if I don't find my "inner voice" and the memoir just don't make it for me, I can always delete the nanowrimo icon I've uploaded, get ride of this post, and go back to writing my wonderful daily life in the Bible Belt.
Only time would tell.
The story that I'm planning to tell is a true story. . . I know memoir=true story but you never know who bumps into this blog asking wtf is a memoir. It happened to this cool foreigner several years ago, to be more precise in 1999, and to be even more precise it happened in January '99 during the dead cold of winter. It happened in a foreign country, one that spreads from Asia all the way to Europe, and my friends the shit hit the fan back in those days in my world.
The question is not whether it is worth writing 50,000 words about that story, the question is if this red haired man is capable of such task. No need to mention that Englisch is not my mother tongue, a quick look a my posts may give you some clues on the way I butch the English grammar day in day out, but aren't literary agents and editors suppose to correct whatever mistakes you've done? Well, mine would do that whether they like it or not once this book is done.
So November is Nanowrimo month. . . and perhaps there wouldn't be many updates on my daily life that anyways has turned out very z z z z z z z z z z z z z lately. But the good thing of all this stupid idea is that if I don't find my "inner voice" and the memoir just don't make it for me, I can always delete the nanowrimo icon I've uploaded, get ride of this post, and go back to writing my wonderful daily life in the Bible Belt.
Only time would tell.
Jean-Francois was drunk at 9:39 PM
1 Comments:
This has been perhaps the worse idea in the history of bad fucking ideas...
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