I'm wide awake now thanks to the energy of my favorite redheaded person with whom I traipsed through Walmart while she claimed to be sleepy, but managed to find excitement with nearly every item at her eye level in the store. I do not know if that is an entirely grammatical sentence.
So instead of writing a five page paper on Shakespeare's sonnet 14 or my memoir for nonfiction writing, I'm here. I have no thoughts except that I am feeling rather accomplished. I've done all my homework for tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday. So yay me!
I was labeled a liberal last night. I don't know who was the originator of the pairing of that term with my name. And then when we were trying to make the film we were told to "do what your shirt says." What does that mean? How do you do liberal things while playing Clue? At least I wasn't the "slob" or the "blonde."
So the definition of "veracity:"
"We see into our memories in much the way that we see across the floor of a sunbaked desert: everything we conjure, every object, creature, or event we perceive in there, is distorted, before it reaches us, by mirages created by subjectivity, time and distance. . . The best the a would-be nonfiction writer can do is use imperfect language to invoke imperfectly remembered events based on imperfect perceptions."
SO in creating a memoir, or memory in words, the facts aren't just so. Unless one has a journal they keep all the time and photographs. Oh hey! I do! But still, memories are subjective, selective, and clouded by time. But it's my memory. And even if it isn't true, I'm being faithful to the spirit of my memory. Because it is mine. My memory, my perspective, my viewpoint.
I still haven't decided what memory I'm going to write about. I'm thinking a conversation I had with my granddaddy at dusk on May 27, 2000, on a patio swing, just the two of us. A walk to get the paper. One sentence I'll never forget.