Memoirs. I’ve always been very impressed by my fellow bloggers who have written – or are in the process of writing – their memoirs.
It’s not something I’m ever likely to attempt. I believe I have made it clear already that any memoir I tried to write would be very short and exceedingly uninteresting.
I’ve not had exciting jobs or met fascinating people. I’ve not dined with opera singers or hung out with rock stars. I haven’t even had a riveting childhood. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my childhood, but it certainly isn’t filled with tales of deprivation or neglect – the usual stuff of memoirs.
So you can imagine how thrilled I was to discover that my youngest son is writing his memoir. He’s only twelve but I am sure – from what I have heard – that he is writing an account of his Life So Far.
How do I know this? He keeps coming and asking me for vocabulary advice.
“What’s it called when someone punches their fist into their other hand?” (I couldn’t answer that one. What is that called??)
“What do you call it when you say something and the other person completely overreacts and how you then react to that?” Shocked? Surprised? Stunned? Stunned. That’s the word he was looking for.
I can’t wait to read it.
I’m joking about it being a memoir. Please don’t call the Child Protection services.
Pardon? What is he writing, then? No idea. He’s writing. That’s enough to know, don’t you think?