What about fiction? is inevitably the next question. Don't I want to be a novelist? Mmm, not really. I prefer non-fiction in both my reading and my writing. A few years back I stopped, then haltingly restarted, reading fiction. Damn, there are many good books out there. Wonderful stories by prolific authors that beg me to keep turning the page. But, there is also much to learn, hence my predilection for non-fiction. Memoir, to me, is a nice mix of both the F and NF words. I enjoy reading about others lives, triumphs and tragedies. Oy vas mir* - how cliché. It is also a challenge for me to take a small happening or a series of events in my life and string them cohesively into an enjoyable tale.
The freedom of memoir speaks to me. My recollection. My purview. How I lived it and how I remember it. I never set out to be a teller of tales, but as I get a little bit older, I find it enjoyable to both orally relate stories and type them out for perpetuity. I've always considered myself a skeptic, a cynic and sarcastic. Why not translate that wry way of thinking into pleasurable tid-bits for my friends and sometimes family? I say sometimes because I think some of my relatives (siblings, perhaps?) are my least enthusiastic readers. That's OK. I can't compete with the NYT crossword puzzle and Joe Kenda.
About two years ago I began attending a 'memoir' class for those of us over 55. Yep, I qualify and then some. We've been through a few iterations of purpose and now meet weekly to discuss all types things; writing, written, wrote, rote, and verboten. Lively, intellectual discussion followed by a prompt driven in class write, reading our piece if we want to. We meet at a Denver Public Library, the teachers are delightful and volunteer their time and efforts to keep us amused and stimulated. I try to make every class because I always get a decent 'write' out of the day, or at least some motivation to go home and keep at it.
Last Friday we continued our discussion of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style. I knew I owned a copy, most assuredly a thrift store find of yore, but couldn't put my hands on it. I've been borrowing the libraries edition and can say with much relief that I found my own book early this morning while pulling out a poetry book from my one little bookshelf. Moments like these give me extreme pleasure and reaffirm my belief in a Higher Power. After debating fancy words, orthodox spelling and over explaining, Ray handed out our weekly prompt. Always two to choose from and I took on this one. "Dull not to..." Here is my (almost) unedited write. I did read my piece with a preface that I also share with you. This may or may not be fiction. Pick your own parts to believe.
Enjoy!
DULL, not to be confused with drab or simple minded. He of dull mind. She's a dull girl. No. This dull is an acronym:
Divorced
Uninhibited
Lusty
Ladies
It is a private club. Not too small with a few chapters spread throughout the United States. Denver's chapter, the charter, is quite active. Active. With a capital 'A'.
Mostly we began as a group of women who had led formerly dull- yes dull in the conventional sense- lives. Children and dishes. Laundry and missionary. Gossip and homework. Church, PTA and the hundreds of other things dull women do.
I started the Denver chapter in 2008; the year of my divorce. The acronym back then stood for:
Denver
Unites
Lovely
Lonely(s)
We were a kind of lonely hearts club for women who were a bit
older, unfamiliar with the dating protocol du jour. Gals who wanted to go out, have some fun, build friendships. Breakaway from the formerly mundane (dull?) lives of housewifery. And boy! Did we do that and more.
Dating younger men. Exploring one-night stands. Chippendale's. Belly dancing in the moonlight. Flirting with men in cars - but only orange cars. Calling old boyfriends. Facebook hook-ups. J-Swipe and Tinder for seniors.
The twelve of us were completely out of control. Word got around and more women burnt their bras, put purple streaks in their hair, bought black thongs. And I don't mean sandals. We were wild women! Girls gone crazy.
Chapters sprung up in New York, LA and Chicago. National conventions convened. T-shirts were made. Key-tags for members gave us discounts at Christal's stores nationwide.
What started out as a small group of horny middle-aged women grew into a monster, a machine of it's own. Every time I typed the newsletter I feared the porno police would beat down my door. My ex told my kids I was not only unfit, but a sex addict. My friends no longer talked to me for fear I would recruit them.
Now I am in the process of rebranding this non-profit again. Can you believe we are a 501c3? Our new acronym will still be dull:
Divas
Uninterested in
Living
Large
Time to Write,
Jane
* Oy vas mir - woe is me
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