My life as a story

Yes, I would read the novel about my life.

500 words to go...

In all seriousness, I'm not sure how to proceed with this blog post. Am I supposed to justify why I'm an interesting person? Because I'm not sure I can do that without sounding like a complete asshole. I mean, really, that's not the most humble task, is it? Telling everyone what an interesting person you are? So I'm going to try a different tack.

For starters, I would read it because, from my perspective, it would be absurdly entertaining. I would love to see which of my idiosyncrasies would be taken advantage of in print to encapsulate my character. "He reached for his pencil under the table and squeezed it until it snapped..." Or maybe, "When he was nervous, he would pretend he was smoking a cigarette to calm himself down. This was odd considering that he'd never smoked and didn't know how to do it." I mean, really, I would love to be thoroughly examined by an outside observer, as long as they changed my name before they published it.

But however my novelist portrayed me, I would take it with a grain of salt. Novels are neat, always. Even a wild modernist novel like To The Lighthouse is carefully planned and executed. Real life is neither neat nor particularly planned. It just happens. My novelist would inevitably reduce me to a simpler, more coherent version of myself. I would love to be introduced to "other Paul," but I would remain aware that I am not other Paul. I am more complex, more human, and just generally better.

I think that, more than anything, I would learn about the author of my novel--what they thought of me, how they perceived me. And that would be useful.