Memoirs

This blog is so mildewed.

You probably still remember that it was only three months ago I announced unabashedly I was going to write a memoir of my own. And then, a couple of weeks and several thousand of words later (the evidence of which is still staring right back at me every time Google Chrome finishes loading this page), I gave up.

Frankly, who would be nuts enough to read about my insipid, vapid, humdrum life, huh?

I haven't accomplished anything of historical significance. I haven't found a cure for cancer. I have not lost a limb saving humanity. And so, seriously, what is there, in my life, that is so remarkable that warrants its documentation in any forms? In short, as Neil Genzlinger (a staff editor at The Times) put it, I have not earned my right to draft a memoir. Read his article here.

Coming to Japan has, no doubt, become the zenith (which I humbly hope for more in the future) of my life. An experience which I possess a burning narcissitic desire to tell. But until I am capable of crafting my stories in a more riveting fashion, the world is better off with me reading and not felling trees unnecessarily.

PS: still reading As Always, Julia.