Читать книгу 8 Bags of Mice - Z.C. Christie - Страница 5

I never planned on writing a book. I’ve scribbled stuff ever since I was small… filled notebooks, kept journals, and I am a prolific list maker. But write a book? About what?

I didn’t have these massive, epic stories in my head like the big shots of literature. I wasn’t full of spiritual insights or revelations that I felt compelled to share with mankind. I had no real expertise, degree, or special training in anything technical, inventive, or otherwise, unless you count managing Continual Crisis and Chaos in a Slightly Crazed Family.

All I had was an endless stream of notes, thoughts, anecdotes about my family, little stories of things I had experienced or had caught my interest, and a bunch of lists.

Nothing that was going to make a big splash in the literary world, or get me invited to appear on a late night talk show, where I would chatter away about the book, while trying to keep the world from seeing up my skirt by keeping my legs tightly crossed. (Have you ever noticed how those damned cameras seem to be aimed right at the guest’s crotch? And nearly all of the female guests wear a skirt or a dress? And then they spend most of their air time tugging the hem down?) Not for me, no thanks.

People have asked if I write for Fame, Fortune, and Recognition… and I guess they’re not bad things to have, some people seem to want that sort of thing. Fame, well, my language is a tad colorful at times, and any interview with me would inevitably have a series of Fortune is always handy in anyone’s life, but it truly isn’t everything. Recognition? If I look in a mirror every day and know who the heck I am, that’s good enough for me. So no, I don’t write to try and achieve those things.

I write because all those words, thoughts, memories, and junk whirling around in my brain have to be purged on occasion, or my head would explode. I don’t my head to explode, as it’s the only one I have and I sort of need it. There is only one way for me to purge all that built up junk, and that is by writing it down.

So what you will read from me are my true thoughts, actual stories and memories, real reactions, desires, hopes, fears, phobias, bad habits, and everything else.

I have been told that some of these stories, especially those about Husband, are amusing (trust me, they weren’t funny at the time). It’s not all I write, though. So don’t be surprised if in some tales you see me whine, get bitchy, make stupid ass decisions, become sad, or even heartbroken. I’m just like you and experience these sorts of feelings, so I write about them. It’s how I survive emotionally, sometimes.

On Being Anonymous: My kids, after reading the stuff I wrote about them, reminded me that they had to live and work on this planet, and if I to do this project, could I at least do it anonymously? To keep these silly people happy, I decided to borrow ancient family names (from long dead family members, they won’t mind) to use in place of my own. But you’ll get to know the real me through what I write, and that’s what counts anyway, isn’t it?

So, hello there…it’s really great to meet you.