When people find out that I’m a writer, the question that invariably comes after ten minutes is: “So are you going to write a book?”
Almost as if writing a book is what makes a writer a real writer.
I usually reply with:
a) No. I’m not long-winded enough.
b) No. I haven’t found a subject I’m passionate enough about or have enough to say about.
c) No. I don’t know.
Even Y asks me this from time to time and I tell him the same thing. I’ve never been able to see myself writing a book, even if I did complete Nanowrimo in 2005, but that has started to change recently.
The only (or most likely) way I can see myself writing a book these days is if I write a biography. Not an autobiography, but a biography. It would allow me to combine my love for meeting interesting people and hearing their presumably interesting stories, and solve my dilemma of never having enough to say. Because it’s not my story, it’s theirs. And if there’s going to be a biography of them, they better have a lot to say.
I wonder if I’ll ever write a biography. And who it would be of.
