Why I’m Unable To Write My Autobiography

I heard from three writer friends so far that they’re currently writing their autobiography – or memoirs… I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t consider writing my own after getting the idea. But I had to see that this won’t work.

We all know the saying when a writer has the idea for a story in his/her head, it needs to get out and be written. It is a true saying. And that’s why after I got the idea of writing my memoirs two minutes later the idea had been disappeared out of my head again. I figured this meant that this story doesn’t want to be written.

There are many reasons for not writing my autobiography: I always considered great minds, great personalities, famous and respected people do have an autobiography or biography… but me? Who would want to read about my life? It has been normal! In fact, it was extremely normal I think it would be boring to read about it. Yes, there were struggles, so many that it wasn’t an easy life – but these struggles are only important to me! Compared to other people’s problems and challenges mine were so minor.

I understand there are people traumatized as children or young adults and writing down their story might help. I heard about an actress who wrote her memoirs when she was 18 years old. Come on! 18? At that age, you discover that you are legally an adult. Was your life so freaking bad as a teenager? If yes, fine; if no, would I have to read about 15 years of overly dramatic boredom? With me, it’s different!

And I won’t write about a life that is so full of happiness, greatness, adventures and fantastic pictures, which would paint a completely wrong person. Like people who live their life on Instagram. Their lives are full of fantasy, greatness, fun, happiness and impressive pics. How many times do I see some friends of friends posting pics of their vacation in Australia! All people with Koalas on their backs! They all are happily beaming into the camera (except the Koala, whose 400th pic it is that day). One could almost think Australia was only built for Koala vacation. And yes, I’m just kidding.

But I refuse to write about a colorful life that I never had. I don’t need to impress anyone; I don’t need to publish my mistakes and wrong decisions in my life. I only need to make sure one person is going to be good with my life – and that’s my former child-self.

I want that little AJ looking into the future and saying: “Okay, this is the AJ I want to become later. She might not always do what society tells her to. She might not always have decided for the best, and sometimes she’s clumsy and a bit helpless; she trusts people too easily and when she was younger. occasionally she was blind when it came to guys. But hey – she is herself. She’s always been herself. She still has jokes in her head and has incomparable humor. And even though when she’s on the ground, flat on her belly, she gets back up and fights. With pride in her heart and her chin high.”

 

*******************************

And then there’s another reason: Writing my autobiography or memoirs, wouldn’t that mean, I never want to be forgotten? I want people to remember me. I figure, to the ones who have me in their heart, they’re going to keep me there. And I doubt I would ever find the impertinence to expect the entire world to keep me for eternity.

What IS eternity? – Yes, I know. The definition of eternity can be read in every dictionary, right? But that’s not what I mean.

From what I hear a priest has described eternity like this: “You see a dove picking up a sand grain at the beach, taking it into its beak, flying up to the moon, letting the sand grain fall. Then the dove flies back to the beach for centuries, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon for centuries, lets the sand grain fall. And again it flies back to the beach, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon, and so on; until it has transported the last sand grain of that beach up to the moon. By then – eternity has just started!”

Would I ever want to be remembered by people – in all eternity? (Or until the Earth explodes, but that’s another story). No, I don’t. I’m going to be at a place, where heaven is surrounding me. I wasn’t great; I wasn’t the best thing humankind has ever seen. Shoot the damned bird. LOL

I think you know what I mean.

Yes, my loved ones, my friends, and my family. Keep me in your hearts. But don’t expect me to write down all my life for people to read it. I keep secrets. At one point, let me go.

Do you write your autobiography or memoirs right now? What is your reason to write it down?

Picture courtesy of: https://www.wildgratitude.com/what-does-dove-mean/
Advertisements

3-Year-Anniversary Of ‘Writer’s Treasure Chest’

March 5, 2018 I found a new achievement on WordPress:

 

 

I’m very excited to be a blogger of 3 years this month.

Writer’s Treasure Chest has grown significantly in the past year.

970 posts

over 5,500 comments

1,015 followers

and

almost 80 guests

I’m so lucky to be part of the blogging world with all your help. Without guests, friends, followers, supporters and people encouraging me again and again this blogging adventure would not have been progressing at this pace and wouldn’t have been as successful as it is.

To all of you:

Thursday Funnies

A senior man decides to spend a decent part of his money on a new car and makes an appointment for a trial run at the BMW car dealership. On the freeway, there isn’t much traffic around that time, and he decides to go faster. He pushes the gas pedal down and gives it a go. Just when he enjoys himself most, he sees the blue lights behind him. He considers trying to get away, but at the end, his common sense kicks in and he stops the car rolls the window down and keeps his hands on the steering wheel just as he’s supposed to do.

The door of the police car behind him opens, and a cop gets out and walks to his BMW and looks at him. “Sir, you know why I pulled you over, right?” The man replies: “Yes, Officer. I was speeding, I guess. That wasn’t my intention. I’m on a trial run and got carried away. I never wanted to hurt anyone or did go too fast on purpose. I’m 70 years old now and never got even a parking ticket. I wish this had never happened.”

The cop felt sorry for the retiree and finally says: “I just don’t understand why you weren’t stopping earlier. It seemed you were trying to take off. But listen, I’ll let you go if you are telling me why you stepped on the gas instead of stopping. Make sure it’s a story I never heard before in my career.”

The man replied: “See, Officer, ten years ago my wife ran away with a cop and when I saw you I was afraid you’d try to return her to me.”

*******************************************

Three men arrive at the pearly gates. Saint Peter waited there, looking tired and yawning, telling them: “You know, I don’t feel like doing much today. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” – “But Sir,” one of the men said, We are, you know, dead.” Saint Peter looked at him, watery-eyed and replied tiredly: “You know, if you are telling me how you passed away and I like it, you might get in.

The first one starts: “I’m a lawyer. And today I got home early because I wanted to surprise my wife. We haven’t spent some private time in months. I found her naked in our bed. She’s never done that for me. I searched the entire apartment on the 7th floor, but couldn’t find anyone. But then, on the balcony, I saw that pair of hands holding on to the balcony rail. I took my shoe off and started hitting the fingers until they let go. The man fell off and through some tree which caught up his fall. When he hit the ground, I saw he was alive. So I unplugged the fridge we kept out there and threw it after him. But the cable of the fridge got somehow wrapped around my ankle, and I was pulled over the balcony rail down. Here I am.”

Saint Peter waved him through the gates. “You’re in.”

The second man explains: “I’m a window cleaner and working on a 12-stories apartment house today. I was on the 8th floor when I lost balance and fell. With all my strength I was able to hold on to a balcony rail on the 7th floor until some idiot started hitting my fingers with his shoe. I had to let go and fell. Thankfully a tree caught my fall, and I survived. But then a fridge fell on top of me, and now I’m here.”

Saint Peter waved him through the gates. “Go on. You deserve to get in.”

The third man takes a deep breath and says: “I was sitting naked in a fridge outside a balcony on the 7th floor…”

Picture courtesy of http://www.google.com

*******************************************

One morning a professor enters his clinic and finds his receptionist in tears. When he asks her what’s wrong, she sobs: “Johnson died… Johnson is dead.” The professor pats her shoulder and tries to calm her down before continuing to the third floor, where his office is.

As soon as he arrives, the floor head nurse throws herself into the professor’s arms and howls: “Oh, Professor. Johnson is dead. He passed away…” The professor comforts her too and then walks into his rooms where he finds his secretary in tears, crying. “Johnson died, OMG. Johnson is dead.”

After he had served her some tea and she finally had become calmer, he asks her. “I’m very sorry, Lydia. I don’t remember we had a patient named ‘Johnson’ here. Who is he?” His secretary replies. “Johnson is your laboratory assistant, Professor. He is unbelievable. His private parts are huge. I mean, really big. He’s in the morgue in our basement. If you don’t’ believe me, go see for yourself.” And that’s what the professor does.

He sure finds Johnson’s body and then remembers his face. When he takes a closer look, he discovers that his secretary was right. Johnson’s private parts are over-dimensional. He finds this very interesting, from a medical point of view. His wife is a doctor too and to hear her opinion about this phenomenon he amputates Johnson’s private parts and keeps them safe until he later returns home.

When he talks to his wife that evening about the case, he takes out the container and opens it to show her what he found. As soon as his wife sees the parts, she bursts out in tears and sobs: “Oh no! Johnson is dead!”

*******************************************

 

What Not To Do With My Name

Today I was asked: Do you prefer to be called Aurora or Jean or both? It wasn’t the first time I heard this question, but it made me chuckle since it gave me the idea to this blog post.

My full name is Aurora Jean Alexander. From what I was told, since there is no hyphen between the two first names I cannot ‘demand’ to be called Aurora Jean. This is no tragedy since I prefer ‘AJ’.

Do I mind being called ‘Aurora’? No, of course not! Many do that. Do I mind being called ‘Jean’? Yes. Unfortunately it does remind me of denim and I don’t feel like turning around hearing someone yell “Jeeeeeaaaan” after me like I’d be a wet pair of pants.

But let’s start at the beginning: the origins of my names:

The origin of Aurora is Latin. The name means ‘dawn’. (which reminds me: Isn’t ‘Dawn’ a female name as well?  I admit: I don’t think I’m a ‘Dawn’. But never mind that now.)

The origin of Jean is Hebrew and means “gift from God”  (Or it’s related to the Scottish name Jane, it depends on which page you’re looking for.)

I like the origin of Aurora and I like the sound of Aurora Jean together. But what I still like most is AJ. – So, call me Aurora, Aurora Jean or AJ, they’re all good.

Just promise me: never ever call me “my little sunrise”, as a buddy of mine did – before he didn’t talk anymore for quite some time. His jaw surgery went well and he carefully started eating oatmeal last week. (LOL – Just kidding!)

Enjoy dawn…

Picture courtesy of http://www.amazingsky.net

 

A Woman’s Most Hated Annual Appointment

This blog post is part of the BOAW Blogfest 2018, organized by August McLaughlin, founder of the “Girl Boner” brand.

To check out more blog posts, follow the fest and maybe win a fun price, please go to August McLaughlin’s blog and check out the blog fest here:  http://www.augustmclaughlin.com/beauty-woman-blogfest-vii/


I’m still not sure in what category this post belongs. In a way, it’s a health post more than a beauty post. But since beauty and health belong together, it might be both. Then I found out it is a quite ‘clinical’ post… more medical than anything else, and still: at the end I’m talking about a woman’s most private body parts, which makes it very much non-sexual, but still enough to probably belong into the GB version of Augusts blog fest. And that’s why it’s here.

What I said before I find essential to my life. Health and beauty belong together in my opinion. When I feel like a piece of seven-year-old cheese, having a fever, a horrible headache or suffer from constipation, it doesn’t matter how much makeup I plaster my face with, I’m grumpy and unwell, and I won’t be able to shine. I’m miserable, and it shows. A radiant woman is beautiful, a woman who takes care of herself is beautiful. A radiant woman is one who’s healthy and shows it. A woman like this is beautiful. To be and stay healthy, and to make sure we discover early enough if that’s not the case, occasional visits to the doctor belong to our life. But there is this one appointment, no matter how healthy we keep us – this one annual visit – we all hate from the bottom of our hearts.

There is this one picture that’s burned into our thoughts, memories, and brains, forever. That chair. The most hated chair on Earth – and no, it’s not the one at the dentist. It’s the one that’s about 1000 times worse than the dentist’s most valuable possession.

In every woman’s life, there is this one annual medical examination that turns the most peaceful nun into a maddening fury: Her visit to the gynecologist.

You sit in the doctor’s office, talk to your gynecologist for a couple of minutes before he tells you: “Go over there and undress down below.”

You disappear behind that wall and take your pants or skirt and undies off. And I keep asking myself two questions: “My doctor sees everything in only a few moments. What the hell is this wall for?” And: “If ‘undressing my lower regions’ mean everything – what the hell am I going to do with my socks?

Then you take place in that really, really embarrassing chair. You half lean, half sit there in the most unsettling position. And then your gynecologist tells you the first of two standard sentences: “Could you please slide down closer to me.” I always feel like telling him: “Hey, Mister. If I slide down even a couple of inches closer, I’m going to sit on your face! – But who the hell cares. I’m already laying here in the weirdest position you can imagine… go ahead and stick into me whatever you feel like.” Whoops… of course I’d never say that, but I guess, the women who are going through this regularly know what I mean.

He does whatever he has to do to find out if everything is okay. I doubt I need to describe the confusing and often cold touch of the instruments and the uncomfortable feelings. Of course, this examination is necessary and often lifesaving! I am grateful to have the chance to go to these examinations be lucky enough my doctor screens for early detection of a disease or illness! But this doesn’t make it any better.

In the end, the gynecologist usually checks your breasts, which is a good and necessary thing to do as well. But it’s not less embarrassing than the upsetting position in that chair.
I’m positioned there like a stranded whale, and the next thing I hear is the second, deeply disturbing standard sentence: “I’m sorry, my hands are cold.” And here I am, laying as still as I can, thinking with all my mighty thoughts: “Don’t’ get hard, you nipples… relax… Do. Not. Get. Hard.” – Usually, no focus is going to help to avoid the unavoidable. The doctor’s hands are cold! Dammit.

After the examination, you get dressed again, which is probably happening much faster than the undressing, even more, if you decided to keep your socks on.

At my last examination, my gynecologist told me: “You know, I realized you’re my patient for quite some time… let’s see: It’s over 20 years now.” I nodded and looked at him, replying: “Yes, I know. And this makes you officially the longest relationship I was ever in.” He smirked. “Business cooperation you mean?” And my answer was: “Business, yeah, sure, haha. What other man gets that close to me?” He laughed loudly.

And yes, I think it’s a good thing to pick a gynecologist with a good sense of humor!

__________________________________________________

Picture courtesy of http://www.google.com

 

A Blog Post Dedicated To A Very Furry Friend

I know you might ask yourself – a “furry friend”? And I’ll reply: Yes… VERY furry. The ones of you who read my blog regularly will probably know by now who I am talking about. For the clueless ones: Here he is:

 

The Story Reading Ape

 

Of course, we know him as TSRA, but as most of us know, behind this pseudonym a real man hides. His name: Chris Graham.

Chris is a writer supporter, an excellent blogger, an avid reader – and an amazing personality – a friend!

What is the purpose of “The Story Reading Ape’s’ blog? He writes on his “About” page:

What is the purpose of my blog?

1. To introduce YOU to new (to me) authors I’ve come across in my wanderings through books and the cyber forest.

2. To provide a platform (battered old homemade soapbox) for authors to introduce themselves to you. (See my Contact Me Section for Guest Author article Guidelines)

3. As an informal information service to authors, poets, or anyone else who is thinking of becoming a published person of that ilk.

4. To promote FUN and an OASIS OF CALM and Font of useful Knowledge and tips for Indies (please do NOT feed my naughty chimps or they may follow you home) from the woes and stresses of the real world.

But Chris does more than that. He supports, entertains, helps, consults, suggests and answers.

Whenever I have a question and don’t know where to go with it, I know I can ask The Story Reading Ape. If he can’t help, I know he’ll find a way or a person who can.

How often have I been crying on his shoulder (not literally though!) – and he comforted me. And he was there for me when I didn’t get anywhere with my book blurb – and again when I needed a cover designer.

Not to forget he was the one who spread the word about ‘Writer’s Treasure Chest’ to his thousands of followers, re-blogged my posts, published guest posts, accepted me into his author’s hall of fame and supported not only my writing but also my blogging significantly.

The Story Reading Ape has a soft spot for his readers, followers, authors – and fans.

To me, Chris is one of the cornerstones during the last few years of my writing and blogging progress and a valuable and appreciated companion on my path to publishing my book. It will take another while, but I know, whenever I need help, he’ll be there.

Even though I never met Chris Graham personally, I consider him a friend, and today I wanted to say:

Picture courtesy of http://www.google.com

 

Me, My Cellphone And A Gas Station

It’s been a surprisingly warm day early February when I realized I needed gas. My car was gasping for fuel, and I stopped at the gas station, doing what I always do. Stuffing my cell phone into my pocket, getting out of the car and getting ready to pump gas.

I got a bit of water and that really ugly ragged thing that’s parked at gas stations for people to clean their windshields and ran around my car to make sure I would have a clear vision as soon as I was back in my car. And I tried to be careful since that day we had important guests at the office, and I was dressed in a business suit and high heels.

That moment I realized two senior women leaning on a car two gas pumps further away, whispering and provocatively looking at me. There was no doubt; they were talking about me.

I knew I was looking quite decent, my car wasn’t as dirty as it normally is and I was doing good, so what was there to whisper about?

That moment my phone rang. I was waiting for a call and pulled my cell out of my pocket to answer the call.

While I started talking, smiling, talking some more, the gas pump ‘told me’ my tank was full. I removed the nozzle from my car, closed everything up and finished when the two ladies ran over to me, screaming and crying, their hair standing up.

My call was only short, and I smiled, said goodbye and hung up. Then I turned to the ladies. “Don’t you think it would be appropriate to keep your volume down when you see other people being on the phone? They were breathless in shock and pointed to that famous sign on the pillar next to the gas pump:

Picture courtesy of: http://www.google.com

 

“How DARE you?” one of the ladies panted, only to burst out into visible indignation when I had a laughing fit. After recovering halfway, I finally managed to ask the ladies: “You aren’t dumb enough to still believe that fairy tale, are you?”

They could barely believe what they heard, and I finally told them: “I’m sorry, ladies. I don’t have time for the long version. But believe me: That’s crap. It’s a myth, and nobody knows where it came from. No smoking while pumping gas makes sense. But not using a cell phone? It’s a myth. I wish you a wonderful day.”

Then I took off.

And really, it IS a myth.

I’ve done my research. Years ago already the “Mythbusters” have proven that cell phones cannot produce sparks strong enough to cause a fire, not even if one was holding a cell phone right into the gas vapor.

AMTA, the Australian Mobile Telecommunications Association, launched a study by the Oklahoma EMC Center about this subject. The study was sponsored by the London Institue of Petroleum which published the results at a seminar:

 

(Source: http://www.amta.org.au/articles/amta/Cellphones.do.not.cause.petrol.station.fires)

 

There was another study, carried out between 1994 and 2005 at gas stations around the world which confirmed the myth:

(Source: https://www.scienceabc.com/humans/can-using-a-cellphone-at-a-gas-station-petrol-pump-cause-an-explosion.html)

 

Many more studies around the world show the same result:

(Source: http://www.nydailynews.com/autos/cell-phones-don-pump-fires-experts-article-1.1123228)

 

But make no mistake! Using cell phones on gas stations is NOT completely harmless!

Further studies and expertise have clearly stated, it’s most likely the static electricity that’s the danger!

It’s not the cellphone, but static sparks created when drivers rub themselves on the car that cause most of these fires. A lot of times, the drivers talk on their phones when the spark happens, so it just looks as if the cellphone is the cause of the fire, when it’s actually irrelevant.
When you’re moving in and out of your car, you’re generating static electricity. If you feel a spark, that’s usually between 10 and 20,000 volts of static electricity—and that’s plenty strong enough to make gas fume. (Source: http://www.slate.com/blogs/business_insider/2014/10/03/cellphones_at_gas_stations_mythbusters_debunk_one_of_the_biggest_myths_in.html)

And now you might ask: What in the world does that have to do with writing? And I’ll reply: The call I got was from my new copyright lawyer. 😀