Read this IntroductionThere is nothing stiff about memoir. It's not a chronological pronouncement of
the facts of your life: born in Hoboken, New Jersey; schooled at Elm Creek
Elementary; moved to Big Flat, New York, where you attended Holy Mother High
School. Memoir doesn't cling to an orderly procession of time and dates,
marching down the narrow aisle of your years on this earth. Rather it encompasses
the moment you stopped, turned your car around, and went swimming in a deep pool
by the side of the road. You threw off your gray suit, a swimming trunk in the
backseat, a bridge you dived off. You knew you had an appointment in the next
town, but the water was so clear. When would you be passing by this river again?
The sky, the clouds, the reeds by the roadside mattered. You remembered bologna
sandwiches made on white brea ...
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