Welcome back, my friends, to lucky #13. My good friend and publisher, Debra Di Blasi, speaks best for herself.
Seems everybody has a memoir these days. Seems I’ve been trying to have one for years. Like an egg that won’t drop. A stuck turd. The opposite of purgation. Ah, yes, shit. Indeed, allow me to remain scatological for a few words longer.
I’m not constipated about my past, my many lives lived large. No remorse, no regrets. Neither the drugs nor the booze, neither sex nor abortions, neither mobsters nor terrorist(s), neither poverty nor wealth, disease nor health, Jesus nor Buddha nor nothing that cannot be and everything than might… Failure to complete a memoir – four memoirs, to be exact – is for me a failure to apologize. Failure to apologize is a failure to demand revision. Continue reading