The other day my neighbor said to me, “How’s it going with your memwhahz?” “My what?” I replied, a bit confused. I don’t remember having told her of a recent visit to my gastroenterologist. Then I thought she might have been trying to speak French (or perhaps it was Farsi?) to me and was failing miserably. “Oh, oh, my memoir, yes, yes it’s going fine,” I said, finally.
The most common reply I get from people when I tell them I’ve published a memoir is, “aren’t you a bit young to be writing your memoirs?” (And I’m amazed at how often they do pronounce the word, like my neighbor, with a nasal faux-French-Farsi inflection.) At which point I have to explain, “no, no, a memoir, singular, I’ve written a memoir!—I’m not in my sunset years writing the autobiography of my entire life, known as one’s memoirs (plural).”
For the full post, click here: SukosNotebook.net