Book writing, like wine,
only gets better with time;
and an enormous amount of revision. emy
Okay everybody, I am finally almost done. For reals this time! Really, I meant it!
But what a chore it has been.
For a while I have been threatening to write a memoir. Well, I finally did, but the funny thing is that it’s not my memoir. Though, of course, it has an awful lot of my heart and soul in it.
It’s really the fictional memoir of a homeless man named Nick. I have a desire to bring awareness to the tragedy of homelessness and the heartbreak of un-adopted foster kids that age out of foster care, and end up homeless.
As if those poor kids have not been through enough already.
Yes, this really does happen, by the way.
You may have some questions.
How did I end up writing a fictional memoir, rather than my own? And What on earth would make me think anyone would even be interested in reading my memoir anyway?