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.