The more I try to write fiction the more I realize that
stories in my own life are much more interesting than my imagination. Mostly
because when I tell people about my life, they are often so bizarre people
think I’m psychotic I’m drunk
I’m high I’m lying.
I don’t lie about my past—it happened, and it made me an
isolated freak who I am today.
Also, my husband has funnier stories than I do.
James: Why are you lying on the bed?
Me: Because I’m sad.
James: Why are you sad? Is it because you finally realized
that I’m ugly?
Me: [glare at him]
James: Well, what can I do to cheer you up?
Me: Nothing. The world has turned to gray ash in my mouth.
And I’m not exaggerating.
James: Want me to tell you the story of “Butt, and the
Slowly Fading Sunset?”
Me: No
James: What about “The Ding Bat Who Drank Too Much”?
Me: That’s not even real.
James: It’s a children’s book. Best seller. What about
“McDoogle and the Inappropriate Orange Juice”?
Me: Leave before I do something that will get me on the 6
o’clock news.
Perhaps my husband is the more bizarre story I’ll even try
to unwind. This is oddly comforting, because the prospect of me returning to
China is fading quickly, and while all my stories of transvestites washing my hair my neighbors eating my dog adventures happened in China…maybe I’ll have unbelievable adventures
again with him. Even if I am in America.
You tell--and write--the best stories. I will be very intrigued to see where you end up, and what you end up doing with your many talents.
ReplyDeleteDoes this mean you're interested in pursuing nonfiction at a graduate level?
I would love to get my MFA in nonfiction. If I've learned anything, however, it's that no author tells the absolute truth about themselves. Ever.
DeleteI'm glad you didn't end up on the 6:00 news. :-)
ReplyDelete