In telling people I was working on writing a memoir most look at me with a questionable eye and a face full of doubt. Whether it is my non-biological Mother, some dude I may or may not have a crush on, or any respectable adult over the age of 30, they all seem a little worried about this pursuit. This makes sense. I’m completely terrified as well. How can someone write a memoir at the age of 25? My response is, the same thing I use to tell my college boyfriend in attempts to sound like an old soul, “I’ve lived a lot of life in my young age and most of it I did not ask for.” As I crawl inside myself looking for material and content, I am reaffirmed on a regular basis that this is what I’m being called to do.
My life to date is a story of heroes. Men and women who have seen triumph and who can whole heartily be given credit for my successes. I want people to know that there is life after tragedy. In the eyes of the public or in the solitude of depression, it is possible to move beyond the events that leave scars on your history. There is strength found in reclaiming something as precious as one’s life and a well-deserved pride in doing it with integrity. I want people to understand the portrait of an amazing woman who was never asked to be my mother but took me in kindness and showed me love even though I didn’t start calling her Mom until I was 22.
I want to weave my readers through the struggle of being a recent graduate in an economic culture most 23 year olds, let alone 50 year olds were not prepared for in 2009. I want to give a glimpse of the ever so coveted Los Angeles art world and then I hope to land right smack in the middle of three guys changing the Los Angeles food culture one restaurant at a time. These are the stories found in my book.
Maybe it will take me a lifetime but I feel I have to use the time given to me now to get out as much as I can. This memoir is more than just the life of a questionably sane 20 something; it’s a telescope into a range of industries, politics and social atrocities.