Thoughts on thoughts

  My first impulse is to say no, absolutely not, to this question of reading a book of my life.  I imagine this absurd memoir, tender in all the right and most disgusting places.  I see it there now, in the window of the Stanford Bookstore, covers slathered with a photo of some restive beach with hot pink rubber sandals strewn about in the deep sand and a glaring title in cursive, maybe Edwardian Script or some other god-awful font, just the color of a Florida orange (joke’s on them, those publishing devils, because all the beaches where I live are manmade and barely there, HA).  I am making myself sick to my stomach.
  Then I think of some poetic work of some section of my life, maybe some salty memory from my childhood treated by someone who was not there.  I cannot imagine the cover because the words are so much more important.  Some narcissistic bit of me would love to see what someone could do with the events of my life, how it could be rendered full of honesty and meaning that I’ve never experienced.  Yes, I would read that.  I’m infinitely curious about that.
It would be somewhat terrifying to encounter myself on the page as a character, particularly if I were somehow fully realized.  It would be much more mortifying than catching a glance in the mirror or seeing a film of yourself without knowing the camera was there.  A novel has all those horrible and wonderful workings of the brain in it, or lack thereof.  I don’t think I would want to meet my double.  I am making myself nervous.  Would I make a good character?  Probably; my mild neuroses are there just enough to capture one’s attention, but on the whole boring enough for others to relate.  Relating to a character is pretty central, even if the character is far-fetched, maybe glamorous or horribly seedy.  They still have some bits to connect to.  A boring character has plenty for a person to connect to, and can be part of that hinge that keeps the reader interested.  So long as those boring workings are written about in an engrossing way.
I think I’d read a book about anyone in this class.  I suppose when I think of these books, I see all kinds of brilliant styles splayed out before me, some with pretty swirls of sentences, others with thoughts short and clipped.  Maybe because the way something is written often fascinates me more than the story itself.  The two are absolutely connected, but I mean to say that yes, I would love to read a book about you and your life with your pet cat, Mr. Mittens, if it’s hysterically funny and oddly illuminating.  If the mundanities were clipped out or somehow those dull moments were made vital to the telling of the story, sure, please gift it to my kindle.  I’ll read it on my next flight home.
Altogether, I would say that I’d much prefer to read a book of someone else’s life than my own.  I’m weary of my own mind these days.  Parts would be great though.  Maybe a collection of short stories.  That seems much friendlier, to the reader and to my delusions.