I was reading this here book about how to write your life. How to write your life retrospectively, that is. I don't bother with books about how to write your life prospectively, as I already happen to be the world's foremost authority on writing my life before it happens. (Not, mind you, in some sort of spooky prophetic time-bending sense; more in the "having imaginary conversations with absent friends/adversaries/gurus, wherein I come across all witty and bilingual and have compliant hair, in the hope that when the moment of embodied colloquy actually falls upon us [me and the friend/adversary/guru], I do not appear to have a mouth full of turnip" sense.) So, I was three pages into this book about how to write your life retrospectively, when I came across authoress Miller's most tantalising subheading so far: A Confession, she wrote. Whoohoo, thought I, A confession! Only one more sentence before Patti Miller reveals her secret addiction to dressing up in women's underwear.
But what do I get for my trouble? This: "I probably should, here at the beginning, confess the true extent of my passion to know what life is like for other people." Thence ensue the scandalous details of her longing to ask persons in supermarket queues what it's like to be a person in a supermarket queue. Quel jolly horreur. There's nary a lady's knicker in sight.
It is my firm belief, as the world's foremost authority on writing my life before it happens, that if you're going to go about offering up confessions, then you'd better have something decent to confess. Something criminal, or arguably immoral, or at the very least antisocial. "I killed JFK", for instance, or "By the by, I think it's time I told you, I ate the world's last Tasmanian Tiger". "I have a passion for knowing what life is like for other people" doesn't even begin to cut the confessorial mustard.
14 comments:
You know, I'm forced to agree. That's a crap confession. I mean, really, totally, decadently mediocre.
What's worse is that someone in the publishing industry paid money for that particular confession.
I have a passion for wanting to know what life is like for other people. I don't see any massive bloody advances coming my way. Where is my yacht?!
Or, in the words of Michael Palin, "Now, look here, you bastard."
Thanks for the shilling.
I confess that I once had murderous thoughts about Patti Miller.
Hear the sirens calling, now, Dale? They're getting closer. Clooooser. Creeping ever clooooooooser.
What will you do now you've run out of Tasmanian tigers to eat? You could starve! Perhaps foods of a different stripe?
I confess ... I'm writing an autobiography.
hummm
And also a blog. I bet you didn't know that. That's pretty ... novel. Pardon me.
Martin Kingsley, you are to Michael Palin quotations as peanut butter is to ginger and lime marmalade, though I don't think that's going to help with your yacht acquisition project, unless M.P. happens to have a spare.
Dale, my pleasure. It was a fantastic list. You could probably trade it for a yacht. Seriously. I would rather have that list than a big boat. Particularly in view of the size of my living quarters. (For those who don't what I'm talking about, Dale Slamma here has just coordinated the formation of a list, in alphabetical order, of words whose first phonemes and graphemes are different [which to them's of you wot didn't do elementary phonology means that they don't sound like they begin with the letter wot they're written with as beginning with. With.])
Ah, Maria. The next confession had better be very, very good, preferably involving warts.
Tim: aw. They're very nice looking beasts. I think I'll have to stick to the lentil and chocolate diet for now. Can't quite bring myself to polish off the tiggers.
Tasteful? Delicious? Possibly piquant? Mayhaps (un)savoury?
Yay phonemes!
I wouldn't like to come across a savage lentil late at night, opening up its ravening vegetable maw and demanding vengeance for all lentil-kind, let me say that much. Though perhaps striped chocolate would make a good compromise.
I have nothing against phonemes whatsoever, but have rather a large phoneme bill to pay at the moment, which will teach me to go home-phoneming all over the place.
Possibly some of those groovy orange/black liquorice all-sorts will suffice.
Liquorice, yes. Apparently black strap molasses (which I've persuaded myself is a liquorice ingredient) is one of the most iron-rich foodstuffs there is. I mention this in the spirit of observations like "dark chocolate contains anti-oxidants", "red wine is good for your heart", "sleeping in is good for your spine", &c.
Mr T, never mess with a lentil. They look innocent enough, but get 'em in the wrong mood, and you're custard.
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