I have told a few of you about my next book, if I ever get to it: a memoir of the first twelve years of my life. You might think its’s easy—no research. It’s not. I find that I cannot dig consciously for a memory. It arrives at random. I have to stumble on it when I’m thinking of something else, unexpected though perhaps related to it.. My note—on whatever scrap of paper I have been able to find—identifies its destination with the number 12, followed by the catalyst, like this:

Jack

Then maybe just a word or phrase: “ring of blood”; “concussion”; “exploding ant hill”; or maybe a scrap of a scene or a word identifying an emotion.

Obviously these are notes to the writer (me), nowhere near what might appear in the book, if at all. It’s going to take a while to gather it together and then, to write it. How much time do I have left?

I have to swim now….

Later: I thought of an example to show you how a memory translates into some writing, but I have to find it—in my Time Machine—or a print-out?

Come back. I will, too.

But I guess not today. I’m actually going out (well, in the building but not my place) for dinner.