Somebody once said to me to write about my own experiences.
The funny thing was, this didn’t seem plausible enough.
She was referring to growing up with my mother who couldn’t read or write due to various heart attacks and strokes which wiped her memory.
I thought, and still do, oh yeah a writer with a mother who couldn’t read, I just don’t see it. The irony is too saccharine for my liking. Like the blind musician or the injured athlete. It’s cheesy, slightly irritating and too novice like.
The reality didn’t seem believable.