TheBanyanTree: The Unfettered True Story

[Monique]

Part One of Many

	It has come to my attention that there are books being written about
everything by just about anyone at all. Fiction, nonfiction, quasi-fiction,
quasi-nonfiction, historical quasi-fiction, historical quasi-nonfiction,
science quasi-fiction, sociological treatises about absolutely nothing and
everything, it's all out there. The tables at my B&N (which one would that
be? All B&N's are mine . . . ) are piled with books that seemed like a good
idea to someone at sometime, and some publisher, somewhere, bought into it.
And there they are. 
	And here I am, and I'm wondering . . . why is my book not on one of
those tables? Not in those stacks? The obvious answer is that I haven't
written one yet, or finished one, or made the effort to write and publish
one. That's the obvious answer. I never go for the obvious though. It's too
easy. 
	So why is my book not currently at B&N or any other bookstore or
library or anywhere where anyone can read it? Ignoring the obvious, which is
that I haven't written one, I think it's because of the way our culture
ignores the significant contributions made by those in my particular
position. We are set aside, to the side, whether we want to be or not. That,
or I haven't written the damn book yet. 
	So what should I write about? The options are endless, the choices
numerous, the opportunities variable depending on temperature and wind
conditions. Should I do fiction or nonfiction? I'm working on a nonfiction
project, but it's not as much fun as it might be. Which doesn't mean it
isn't important, because it is. I like to think that whatever I write is
important. It's part of my self-esteem building exercises that take up most
of my days. 
	My psychiatrist told me that if I build my self-esteem just a bit I
might eventually find myself on a level with other famous writers, but I'm
not sure if she was just telling me that because she was bored that day or
because I was being obnoxious. Or if it was the truth. It doesn't really
matter. 
	Anyway, how relevant are writing skills to the writing process? This
is an important question that I must have an answer to if I'm to do any sort
of writing at all because if we go forward with the presumption that I have
some skills, it will make this whole process easier. If, on the other hand,
we go forward with the presumption that I have no skills, then where do we
start? 
	With a writing class, I would think. I don't like classes though.
Something about sitting there with a bunch of other people, none of whom
know anything, being taught by someone who may not know much more, or who
may, frustrates the hell out of me. That, and I have a short attention span.

	After a careful and thorough review of what's out there, it looks as
if I can write about, well, myself. What could be more interesting (to me)
than me? And if I'm interested, won't everyone else be also? Isn't it more a
matter of making it interesting than of it being interesting? Yes, that's
what I thought.
	We could make this an autobiography, despite the fact that I'm
absolutely no one you've ever heard of, and never would if it weren't for
this book. After all, don't you want to read about a life examined, no
matter whose life it is?
	No? You don't? Then please walk yourself over to the "politics and
me" section. You'll have a much better time. 
	One way to have a compelling autobiography is to have lots of sex
and violence. Sex and violence sells, so I've been told. Another way is to
have a kid and his dog, his faithful dog who never leaves the kid's side
until he's lost thousands of miles away and must find his way home again. I
read a book like that when I was a kid myself - it tore me up. I couldn't
bear it. The poor dog. I didn't care anything about the kid, if there was
one, which I'm not even sure about, the dog had my attention from beginning
to end. But I'm not a dog, and not a kid, so that wouldn't be about me, and
what kind of autobiography would that be?
	Not a very good one, I'm afraid.
	Back to sex and violence. To be really good, I'd have to name names,
and when naming names it would be very helpful to use names that are already
well known, but since I haven't been beaten up by anyone famous nor slept
with anyone infamous (or vice versa), I'd have to make that part up. That's
okay. I'm not opposed to writing fiction masquerading as quasi-nonfiction.
I'm not opposed to creating fiction out of fact, or just making it up as I
go along. (I think I would have been a standout reporter, in my day, but
it's too late for that now.)
	It should also have a plot, but since my life so far has been
rather, well, plotless, I'd have to create that also. (Do autobiographies
have plots? This is a good question. I should look this up before I get too
far into this project.) (Then again, would a fictional quasi-nonfiction
require a plot at all? Isn't improv a good way to go?)
	So far I seem to have more questions than answers, but I don't think
that's entirely unexpected. As my friend Jack says, it's the questions that
count, not the answers.
	Jack is not particularly deep, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm
and his love of televised violence. (There. I'm working the violence in
already.) He is, in fact, of two minds on the matter. No, really, he is.
When he was seven, there was a tragic farming accident. It had nothing
whatsoever to do with Jack since he was, at the time, living in Los Angeles,
but somewhere there was a tragic farming accident. But back to Jack. For
Jack it was a tragic car accident, where his mother flew out the window and
his father bumped his head, and Jack's brain split open on the gearshift as
his little body flew forward from the back seat. There's still a dent there,
and his doctors tell him it's the most severe case of split mind they've
ever seen. I have to wonder how often this really comes up, but Jack assures
me it's not at all uncommon. So there it is. When I say Jack is of two minds
on the matter, I mean his brain is separated from itself. 
	When I went to marry my first husband, Jack warned me. I didn't
listen, since I never did trust Jack. I'm on my third husband now, so he was
right. Technically I don't have a third husband yet, but that's an
oversight, and won't last more than five or ten years. True, I did come home
one day lamenting tearfully to my boyfriend that I never ever wanted to get
married again, but I didn't mean never never. There's never, and then
there's never. They're not the same thing at all, are they?
	Don't tell him I said that of course. He might think I have
intentions towards him. Of course I do, but we don't want him to know that.
Sometimes it's best if they're left in the dark, don't you think?
	Anyway, Jack warned me. Vociferously and quite energetically. I
thought he was just jealous. I didn't know he was gay. He didn't know it
either. He still doesn't know it, in fact, but I'm convinced. I know so
because I have known	 Jack for many many years and he has always treated
me like a little sister. This is indicative of only one thing, right?
	And I didn't listen. I rarely do listen. It's not in my nature. And
it's not that I can't hear, because there's absolutely nothing wrong with my
hearing, except that it's not very good, but I just don't listen. That was
my stepmother's biggest complaint, back when I had one. I don't have one
anymore. She's dead.
	No, really, I killed her. But don't tell anyone. They'd be shocked
and appalled and I'd lose my standing as a model citizen.
	I'm kidding. Really. There's no evidence to tie me to her sudden and
tragic fall off that cliff.
	So I married in haste and repented almost immediately thereafter.
That same night, in fact. Before the ink was dry. As we were filing out of
the church. It wasn't a big wedding, but I did have to have it in a church
because it was in one of those states that insist on such frivolities. It
was us, the required witnesses, and the minister. Then there was a keg, and
as my spouse was throwing up later in the evening and being an absolute ass
and his friends were pounding on the door wanting to come in and keep
partying despite the groom being totally wasted and I was trying to clean
him up so I could at least lay down and try to pretend none of it had
happened, I was thinking, "Self, this may have been a bad idea." 
	Obviously it was. Why did we do it? True love? Not really. (Sure,
for years we pretended it was, but let's get real.) I knew my chances of
getting married at all were slim, as my stepmother had informed me during my
formative years, and if we got married we could move out of the barracks,
because the military would pay us money to live together off-base. It was a
no-brainer. They would not pay us to live off-base if we were not married.
And who wants to live in the barracks? 
	If you've never lived in barracks, lucky you. If you have, you may
know what I mean. 

	To be continued . . .