My cousin is crazy. Certifiable.
Up until his eighteenth birthday, that is throughout my childhood, he was in and out of hospitals. At eighteen he moved somewhere rural (I have no idea where) and severed all ties with the family. Except for me. Why me? Because when I was sixteen I hid him for a whole day from his father (my uncle) who wanted to hospitalize him.
This morning at 6 am my cousin called me after a year I haven't heard from him. He called me at 6 am to invite me to his wedding. It's the third invitation I get to his wedding in about the same number of years. I've always accepted the invitation and promised to attend until he disclosed information about some plans he had for the wedding, plans I refused to be a part of.
My cousin isn't dangerous. I don't believe he'd ever done anything to hurt anybody, and I don't believe the authorities had ever had a reason to lock him up. As far as I know. He was also never in jail. As far as I know. But. But he is a fanatic and has questionable beliefs of a zealot and I always worry that someone, some radical group, would take advantage of him and make him do some crazy thing.
Only this morning, after talking to him and after getting back to bed it occurred to me that I never wrote about my cousin, our childhood together, our escape from the adults etc.
It dawned on me also that I have actually never written about my life.
I heard somewhere that usually one of the first novels writers write is about their lives. Some sort of an autobiographical based novel. Fictional with personal facts. An experimental examination if you like.
I also heard that the last novel writers write is also an autobiographical novel. This time different. More facts than fiction and a more tender voice.
I have yet to write about my life. Of course, I occasionally put myself in my characters and of course one aspect or another creeps into my stories, but I have yet to write about my life.
Is that normal? Have you?
Categories: writing, general, process