Recently, I was invited to contribute my “Solo” story for possible inclusion in a book. I was flattered to be asked and my brain immediately began cycling on what I would include as part of my story. I could begin with my earliest memories of being an independent child who had close friends, but also enjoyed playing alone. Then, I’d detail the chaotic years from 3rd -12th grade when I essentially had to parent myself while navigating through 6 relocations, 4 school changes, a stepfather who moved 4 exes and 19 kids into our home and more. Then I could talk about college, work, meeting my wife, our long marriage, her death and my subsequent solo life.
I figured my story would bring a different perspective vs. the other contributors, who had vastly different lives and circumstances.
The author had specified a 600 word limit. I wasn’t worried about that. I’d just do my usual – write a lot, edit as needed and see where the word count was then.
I ended up writing 4 different drafts before getting to the editing stage. Each one was like a long bitch-fest manifesto whining about my life. To make matters worse, the shortest one was over 1800 words!
I was so disgusted with the tone of them that I had to step back to ascertain what was going on. It was then that I realized – I wasn’t asked for my life story, I was asked for my solo story.
So for draft #5, I wrote that.
It came out to 885 words.
I then chopped out huge swaths of extraneous details and got it to 565 words.
I have no idea if it will make the book. It may not fit with the author’s content, intention or requirements. But, I gave it a shot in an effort to help him. And it’s my solo story.
Nobody wants to hear my life story. The only one who did already heard it and died four years ago. I was lucky to have had her in my life for as long as I did.