Recently I’ve been thinking about Memoirs. Are they a worthy literary enterprise, or merely a form of narcissism?

I can fully admit that at most my life has been only mildly interesting with nothing of note occuring or being accomplished.

Yet right now when I lie in bed falling asleep, I’m organizing chapters in my head.

Part of the appeal is how abused the genre has become, the playground of fantabulists, pity-mongers, bullshit artists, attention whores, failed novelists and pathological liars. Something so disreputable appeals to me, and I want to remake it somehow, by doing the complete opposite, by excising the entire notion that a life must be a noteworthy, a struggle, or a search, that the utterly mundane and quotidian can be shaped into something compelling, that plots and themes can emerge from what is an aimless going about of one’s business.

I could just be full of shit, though, and just looking for an excuse to write something I don’t have to research out the wazoo for.

Still, there is something interesting about going about the whole affair backasswards, don’t you think?

Also, yeah, it’s kinda literary. Bite me, I don’t care. You know how hard it is to research Maori defensive fortifications while in Japan? You got wikipedia and some half-assed academic articles online.

So what do you think?