When people ask me what I do and I say, "I'm a writer", their next question is usually, "Have you written a book?"
Nope. But it's on my bucket list.
My problem is my topic. I have this issue with writing fiction; I mean, I have so much going on in my everyday life and my everyday brain that to conjure up some sort of fantasy scenario with amazing character development not only seems like a lot of work, but somehow redundant as well.
There's too much that's gone on in my world to pass it up.
If you go to my website, Kennard Communications, the first line is, "Everyone and everything has a story." The older I get, the more I believe that this is true. My story alone would encompass so many people and situations that I'd certainly have to change the names and places to protect the innocent (and the not-so-innocent).
The book would definitely be humorous. I mean, look at life. It's funny. And if you don't laugh, you'll curl up in the fetal position and cry yourself to sleep every night. Yeah, I've done that.
The book would most likely be ironic. Which is funny. Because a good friend of mine and I argue continually about the difference between "ironic" and "unfortunate". Unlike the Alanis Morissette song, it's not ironic that there's a fly in your Chardonnay, it's unfortunate. Let's just get that straight.
I could do an autobiography of sorts, but I always thought of them as pretentious; that is, unless you're some super-human individual who has encountered amazing adventures like war or the Peace Corps or disease or possibly alien abduction. And I just don't feel as if I've "lived" enough to start spouting off all the things I've learned.
The best I can come up with right now is a hodge-podge collection of stories. I could write chapters and chapters on parenting: what NOT to do, what worked for me, what I did that I didn't HAVE to do, what completely backfired - not to mention the "funny things that happened to me on the way to being a mom", including a section on "things you never thought you'd say" - i.e.: "Don't do cartwheels next to the tripods", "I don't have a staple gun and seven band-aids", "no farting in the van" and "stop going all 'General Grievous' on your brother".
There's my love life - though I'm not prepared to reveal all the details - but friends of mine will say that the string of circumstances that led me from one failed relationship to another is the stuff of a Harlequin romance novel gone bad. Put it this way: if I ever find a man in the Coast Guard, I will have managed to unwittingly date all branches of the military. *sigh*
Then there's family - my twisted brothers and sister and parents that just shake their heads at us all. Many of my Facebook friends have "met" my siblings, and all agree that the Talcott clan is just a bit off. Perhaps we were all dropped on our heads as babies - it's possible. If it makes for some great Thanksgiving dinner fodder, imagine how it would translate into a juicy, familial chapter.
And let's not forget friends - oh, do I have stories! Unfortunately, these same friends have some pretty good dirt on me as well, so I'd have to get signed releases to tell those tales. Put it this way - it's kind of like the adage, "If you were in prison, I wouldn't be the one posting your bail. I'd be the one sitting next to you saying, 'Wow. That was a GOOD time'."
Maybe I need to sit on this for awhile longer. Maybe when I'm old and gray and not running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I can finally sit down to get some thoughts down on paper, then decide if anyone in the real world would give a rat's ass to read about it.
Until then, my friends, you all are safe. I'm just gonna keep living.