I was browsing through a catalogue of writing courses, when one jumped out at me and hit my funny bone (rather than my pain centres): Write Your Memoir in Paris. Holy cow! Even if I was a part of the target audience for this course (now, don’t tell me you have no image of the sort of person who would fly to Paris – from Australia, not London – with a bunch of strangers and a teacher just to write a memoir) I just think it would be too ridiculous to consider.
Come on, surely the course’s main attraction is the bragging rights it would confer on all who attended. If I was going to write my memoir, I think I’d visit locations that might – yanno – trigger some memories!
Besides, I’m under no illusions that my memoir would have any appeal outside my family, old friends and ex-boyfriends – and most of them would only read it to see if I’d written anything actionable! (Actually, hub might read it to discover if there was anything I’d kept from him).
I'm sure that I’d get bored with it in ten seconds flat and suddenly find myself writing about all sorts of adventures that stray from the truth. Just a little. That’s why I write (and mainly read) fiction.
Let’s face it though, if I was going to Paris for a week or so, I reckon I’d deserve to be hit around the head for not going out and enjoying the sights and sounds. Why sit with my head down, detailing the time my teddy bear had to get shaved because someone smeared chewing gum through its fur, when there are sights to see and patisseries to fail to resist?
This would be one of the few times anybody would be justified in yelling: “Go and procrastinate! Now! Traipse around the cobbled laneways then have a three hour lunch!”