No one has been more attentive to, or restricted by, the question of “who are you to write a book?” than me. To put it another way, “what do you have to say that hasn’t already been said?” Those two questions have inhibited me from publishing a book – until recently.
True, I am not a woman of note or notoriety. I am not famous, nor have I accumulated a roomful of medals or awards. So why would anyone want to read a book about the places I’ve lived, or anything about me at all?
Here’s why: the story of my life, as viewed through the lens of the places I’ve lived is a unique and interesting way to document the life of an educated woman of the last half century up to the present time. It happens to be a good read, and all I ask of my readers is that they enjoy reading about the journey I have taken. With any luck, parts of my life will resonate with some of those readers and we will communicate, at least subliminally. And that is what most writers, and certainly I, hope for.
My guiding principle in addressing those above-mentioned nagging questions has been: Monet painted haystacks. Haystacks may be ordinary, but in the hands of a skilled painter, they have become art. I believe that my little book, My Address Book: A Way of Remembering, is a form of art as well. And art, on any level, is a way of communicating.