8.198.19.04
Memoir
of a Memoir-Writing Class
Introduction: The Path That Led to Gotham
By Harris Bloom
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Mem-oir n. - 1. An account of the personal experiences of an author. 2. An autobiography. 3. Personal essays written by someone who thinks their life is just so damn fascinating that he or she thinks others will want to stop living their own lives long enough to read about the author’s life.
Over the years I have employed several techniques with varying degrees of success to alleviate the mind-numbing boredom of being a regulatory accountant.
First, I tried my hand at day trading. It was fun while I was making money; less fun when I lost the money I had made. It was painful when I lost my original investment, and downright excruciating when I fell into debt. On the bright side, I will be able to take the maximum capital loss allowance on my income taxes until the year 2231. I stopped playing the stock market a few years ago…well, I stopped letting it play me.
Then, I discovered Internet dating. After being inundated with 30,000 e-mails offering free trials from various sites, I gave in and joined one. Perfectly suited for the terminally shy such as myself, I was hooked immediately. My days were spent e-mailing back and forth with cute girls and my nights were filled going out with them. Perfect. It was as good as a regulatory accountant could hope for. As usual though, I had to go and ruin it – I found a steady girlfriend.
Sure, it was nice to get away from telling new dates my life story twice a week, and yes, it was great to be able to lose the insecurity that one feels when meeting someone new, and certainly, it was refreshing, not to mention good for my asthma, to have a clean apartment to hang out in once in a while. But I couldn’t help but bemoan my workday fate. I was back to Square One – plenty of time at work with nothing to do.
And my girlfriend couldn’t have been more unsympathetic to my plight. She had one of those jobs not spent emailing back and forth all day long. So that I would have something to do, I asked her if she would mind if I went back to the dating site where we met. I promised not to meet anyone. Judging by her response or at least the words I could make out, you would think I’d told her she could stand to lose a few pounds around her butt.
I
was at witless end. A tight job market precluded me from seeking employment
elsewhere. Surfing the Internet lost its charm fast…after all, how
many blogs can one read a day? Then I got an idea during a phone conversation
with a friend, Kim, who suggested that I write a book…
I see me at my book signing in a Barnes and Noble they would have
to close to the general public due to the huge throng of my adoring fans.
In fact, extra security would have to be brought in – with stun
guns – yes, stun guns, after The Incident last week at the Borders
in Binghamton signing.
I, resplendent in my signature red velvet smoking jacket, silk paisley ascot, black lounge pants, and sneakers would be more than happy to answer a few questions from the crowd, while I smoked my pipe of course…
“Mr. Bloom…At what time did you realize you were good enough to be published?"
“I can not say the exact time, but it was on my birth date of November 25, 1967, for young man, great authors are born and not made. Fantastic phrases, marvelous metaphors, and sassy similes flow from my mind like sentence fragments, double negatives, and idiotic plots flow from most of my contemporaries. Wait a second, I like that. <I write it down> Next question!”
“Mr. Bloom…How do you find the ideas for your stories?”
<While scanning the masses> Ahhh…did you hear that? Say it again for those who didn’t hear - a little louder this time.”
“Umm, how do you find the ideas for your stories?”
“The answer is, I don’t find the ideas…the ideas find me. <Pause> They find me. <I look around…crowd looks at each other confused…I move on> Next!”
“Do you have a favorite ritual, or maybe a superstition that you adhere to when you write?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I sit on my Louis XV style bergere, with a generously filled goblet of Maison Surrenne Vintage Cognac 1946 on one side and my trademark Dunhill Amber Root Bent-style pipe <lift it up> on the other. I listen to classical music played softly in the background. I have found that Bach is particularly conducive to fine writing, especially his earlier CD’s. I typically sit back with my elbows pointedly resting on the armrests and my fingers meeting at my lips. When I think of something brilliant, I exclaim, ‘Aha!’ while pointing my right index finger into the air, before leaning forward to immortalize my thoughts. I then sip my cognac, smoke my pipe and resume my former position. Lather…rinse…repeat. <Applause- bow head – wait for applause to end and fans to sit down> Thank you, thank you, if you will form a single line, we shall commence with the book signing. Each is $25 in addition to the price of the book and I do not do personalized engravings, so please do not ask. Thank you.”
“Harris? You still there? Harris?!?” Kim asked, her voice increasing in timbre.
“Uh, yeah, I’m here. Sorry. A book, huh? I dunno…I think four fifths of the people in Manhattan are writing books…and the other fifth are writing screenplays. Why would anyone wanna read mine?”
“Are you kidding? People read all kinds of crap.”
“Yeah, but I’m no writer. I’m barely an accountant.”
“Take a class.” Take a class.
“Hmmm, I should take a class. That could even be fun.”
“There you go.”
“One thing though.”
“Uh-oh…what?”
“I
will not write ‘lightweight kind of stuff.’ Nay, I will be
a force to be reckoned with once I hit the literary scene. Eggers will
cower in my presence. Pollack will be forced to relinquish the title of
“Greatest Living American Writer.” Salinger will insist upon
introducing me at speaking engagements. Heavyweight all the way my dear.”
Inspired, I immediately contemplated where I should take the class. I
decided I did not have the funds, or the brains, for one of NYU’s
or Columbia’s writing courses. Then I remembered those ubiquitous
yellow boxes found on every street corner in Manhattan promoting Gotham
Writer’s Workshops’ offerings. I logged onto their website
and looked around. It seemed legitimate. I signed up for their “Memoir
Writing 1” class, a ten week beginners memoir writing course for
$420, a small price to pay, if all went as planned.
The instant I clicked the icon to send in the payment, I had second thoughts. I wondered about the other students. I wondered if they would be former English majors who actually knew what an adverb is. I wondered if they would reference books I had not read, or had only seen the movie adaptation of. I wondered if I would even be able to understand their intricate stories, which I imagined would be filled with more complex subplots and characters than a Cecil B. DeMille movie. I wondered if there would be any cute girls in the class. I started to sweat.
Next Week: Part One – I smell trouble…or is it me?
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©
2004 Me Three