I spend a lot of time in the past writing about my life. Its a good place, and I always wonder at how much I remember, the sights, smells and feelings still intact. One of my buds (Thanx Ann Lammas) loaned me two memoirs, both by men, of their pasts. One was Ghost Light by the theater critic of the NYT, Frank Rich and the other was by the writer Andre Dubus III who was raised in working class New England towns in moderate poverty. Frank Rich had a plushy life, upper middle classl, in DC. So, as is my habit since Ive gotten older, I read both at the same time, Richs and Dubuss back and forth. It was like Whine, whine, whne with show tunes, and Grunt, grunt grunt lifting weights, back and forthl grunt and whine, whne and grunt. Heres what I thought. The grunting was much better written, absolutely writerly all the time, as the hero got into lifting and punching and reading Marx, but it wasnt very engaging. Probably a guy thing. While the life in the theater memoir wasnot well written, especially for a guy who does it for a living, and very naive, too naive for a 20th century kid to have written, and sprinkled, as it was, with show tunes, not very engaging either. Neither one made me laugh. My stuff always makes people laugh. One of my writing buds was kind enough to say it sounded like Tina Fey. So what do I do? Keep writing I guess. Later, FB buds.
Posted on: Sat, 31 May 2014 22:44:52 +0000
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