I always thought it was a bit premature every time someone would release their autobiography. The whole point of a biography concept is to offer a complete account of someone’s life. Releasing an autobiography is like telling the world “forget my remaining years, the ones I wrote about are the only ones that truly matter.” I mean you wouldn’t write a review of a movie without seeing the last thirty minutes, right?
If a person feels so compelled to write their life’s story, why not write their memoirs like Mia Farrow did? In her own little way she was telling the world “Aha see, I’m still around; don’t know if I’ll adopt another kid because I DIDN’T WRITE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY – MY LIFE ISNT SET IN STONE. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t – you should read my second memoir though, its all about kids 8-19.”
I think that if I ever were to write my autobiography, I would kill myself right after it went to press. (A) It would assure my book would receive tons of publicity; (B) I wouldn’t have to deal with that awkward “oh, you’ve lived such an exciting and interesting life. Well, not so much nowadays, but at one point…”
I don’t know what set me off on this tangent – maybe the news that Keith Richards is writing his own biography of his life. Even that in and of itself is sort of strange. I don’t mean to criticize – I love the man dearly and will purchase his book the instant it comes out, but I doubt he was one to keep a diary, and do you think that after all these years/drugs he will remember anyways?
I’ll admit though, I do enjoy reading autobiographies – its much more intimate than reading a biography which cites other peoples’ opinions and perceptions of events. So I guess this is one of the many contradictions of my personality – I take great delight in doing the very things I criticize. In my next posts, I will write about my favorite autobiographies/memoirs.