ImPerfukt

A time has to be chosen for the writing of a book. Like now. This happens to be a good time for me. In fact a very good time for me, because according to my children, it’s long overdue. There has been, you see, this “book promise” that has remained long-unfulfilled. They have seen me writing at my various desks and writing spaces and places over the years, and have believed, I think, that I really did frequent libraries, cafes, and the occasional wine bar, in order to be productive - and not simply, in order to have another excuse to stare at the paper or laptop and sip on cappuccinos or drink happy-hour glasses of wine. Of course, while staring at the paper. No. I went to write. Add to that the fact that I had already paid for a publishing contract. Some people, you know, (and I do agree they could be the wiser ones) write first and send out afterwards. Well, I did that a bit. Had mild interest and nice comments. But I didn’t keep it up. I only listened as far as the ego - okay, my variety of fragile ego - would allow. I was rejected several times over by various publishing houses, even though it’s true, my words made it through the slush pile a few times. Yes, a few times. Enough times: three was good enough for me. And I can say it was very satisfying to believe I had a voice, and words worth sharing. (Yes. Worth sharing with more than just my children.) But really, it’s owing to them - the children - that I am writing and publishing a book. But do I have anything worth writing about? And getting down (and keeping down!) on the printed page? Or, am I fooling myself in asking that any reader (above and beyond my two, and extended family, of course) should want to spend time with my thoughts? I can say this much: it has been worth my time to share what follows on these pages. And my children deserve to see that I am honouring my word. I do expect to amuse them, regale them, and quite unintentionally, anger them, owing to some of the content. But nothing in it is meant to humiliate anyone. (Some may beg to differ, but that’s only because I’m sharing some past, humorous “awkward” moments.) Others, too, may feel frustrated that I didn't check for facts, (nor seek permission), but I made this choice on purpose. This memoir is, after all, a singular venture, exposing a solo viewpoint of the various things I did, saw, created, felt, heard, said, shared and avoided, (you get the picture!) with a whole lot of other people. I was bound to misrepresent something. But only unintentionally. Lastly, everyone I know amasses stuff – both beautiful and superfluous - over the course of their lifetimes. This book may become just more stuff for some. Just One More Thing in the House. And that is absolutely fine. I mean it. The finished product will still have been worth my time even as it might get tossed! And I don’t mind that it cost me a couple grand upfront. Really! For me it represents a huge accomplishment. A project started and a project completed. I am not interested in what is worth what and to whom? Who can say for sure? But I do know this: maybe just because I am a woman over 50, some otherwise unknown person to me will see the book, read a few pages, and give some credence to the ramblings of me, some otherwise random quinquagenarian.