Not Quite What I Was Planning Read online

  Not Quite What I Was Planning

  Six-word Memoirs

  by Writers Famous and Obscure

  From Smith Magazine

  Edited by Rachel Fershleiser and Larry Smith

  Contents

  Introduction

  Begin Reading

  Searchable Terms

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  LEGEND HAS IT THAT ERNEST HEMINGWAY WAS ONCE challenged to write a story in six words. Papa came back swinging with, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Some say he called it his best work. Others dismiss the anecdote as a literary folktale. Either way, the six-word story was born, and it’s been popping around the writing world for years.

  Launched online in 2006, SMITH Magazine celebrates personal storytelling and the ways in which technology has fueled storytelling’s growth and infinite possibilities. We like to be both populist and aspirational, blurring the line between professional and amateur. So in November 2006, while thousands of people were cranking out tens of thousands of words during annual National Novel Writing Month, SMITH decided to lower the bar. We gave Hemingway’s form a new, personal twist: What would a six-word memoir look like?

  We asked our friends; they liked the idea. We ran it by memoirists we admire; they loved the challenge. We shared it with the tech communication wizards at Twitter.com; they wanted to team up to deliver a sixworder a day, free to anyone with a cell phone and a love of stories. With those pieces in place, we invited our readers to submit their short, short life stories for a contest—a battle of brevity.

  Soon, six-word wonders were zipping across the Net—from laptops to SMITH, from Twitter to cell phones, from writers to their blogs, from readers to one another. And before we knew it, submissions were coming in by the thousands. Folks from all over the world sent in their sublime frustrations (“One tooth, one cavity, life’s cruel”) and inspired aspirations (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah!”), their divine wisdom (“Savior complex makes for many disappointments”), and deepest inner secrets (“I like big butts, can’t lie”). And while most of the memoirs were penned by writers who have not been published (until now), others came from household names—from Aimee Mann (whose six is like a short, sweet song) to Mario Batali (who sent a generous half dozen to our table) to Joan Rivers (as outrageous and wonderful as you’d imagine).

  We were most struck by the openness of the memoirists—and by their desire to share even more of their lives with perfect strangers. People sent us pictures of the adorable children they’d just admitted, in six words, they regretted having. One woman wrote us a letter detailing the infertility developments that had rendered her hopeful memoir obsolete. “Whole lifetimes happen in people’s lives every day,” she wrote, “so I suspect many memoirists write what’s true at the time only to find their lives drastically different a short distance in the future.”

  The enthused author of “Hockey is not just for boys” sent in a photo essay of chicks with sticks, plus the skate-blade sharpening machine of which she’s grown so fond. An artist in San Francisco followed up his book illustration with a comic strip about Anna Nicole Smith. We received photos of deceased wives in bridal gowns, of the tiny headstones of babies lost. An accountant in Florida requested a snail-mail address; soon a packet of miniature origami animals arrived at our office.

  Others were rising to the occasion in ways we hadn’t expected. We heard that teachers were assigning six-word memoirs to their students; that families were trading six-word memoirs across their dinner tables; that pet fanatics were writing them for their dogs.

  We became as obsessed as our own memoirists. Wisdom started to appear everywhere in six-word increments. When a hand dryer in a public restroom bore the graffiti “love me or leave me alone,” we took it as a six-word sign from above. We had whole conversations while counting on our fingers (and one thumb) for six-word legitimacy. We found ourselves debating the validity of hyphens over dinner and drinks. (Just how many words is “three-legged cat”?)

  The fruit of this amazing response? You’re holding it in your hands.

  One of the delights of reading six-word memoirs is imagining the writer behind those few carefully chosen words. Despite the well-documented dangers of assumption, we were surprised to learn how many of the real-life writers were nothing like we expected.

  The bittersweet “Cursed with cancer. Blessed with friends” came not from a wise, optimistic grandmother, but a nine-year-old thyroid-cancer survivor. The brave girl’s mother wrote to say that her daughter had sat alone at the computer for hours selecting her words, and then checked SMITH each day, hoping to see her name on the screen. The poignant “I still make coffee for two” didn’t come from the shaky hand of an elderly widower, but a recently dumped twenty-seven-year-old dude with a fondness for caffeine. After months of reading six-word memoirs barely noticing the writer’s name, sometimes we were delighted by words seven and eight. After all, could you ask for a better life story from Deepak Chopra’s son than “Soul’d out so I could prophet”?

  This book is a glorious mishmash of these and myriad other voices; it’s a thousand little windows into humanity—six words at a time. Whether the results are shocking, strange, silly, or sad, we hope you’ll agree that they are always entertaining, often inspiring, and totally addictive.

  In the autobiographical spirit of SMITH Magazine, the photos and illustrations that appear here arrived from the writers themselves. To see hundreds of images we didn’t have room for, plus new memoirs every day, go to www.sixwordmemoir.com. While you’re there, you just might be struck by an overwhelming desire to supply a six-word memoir of your own. And why wouldn’t you: Everyone has a story—what’s yours?

  The editors of SMITH Magazine

  September 2007

  New York, NY

  After Harvard, had

  baby with crackhead.

  —Robin Templeton

  Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.

  —Bill Querengesser

  Watching quietly from

  every door frame.

  —Nicole Resseguie

  Catholic school backfired.

  Sin is in!

  —Nikki Beland

  Savior complex makes for

  many disappointments.

  —Alanna Schubach

  Nobody cared, then they did.

  Why?

  —Chuck Klosterman

  Some cross-eyed kid,

  forgotten then found.

  —Diana Welch

  She said she was negative.

  Damn.

  —Ryan McRae

  Born in the desert,

  still thirsty.

  —Georgene Nunn

  A sake mom, not soccer mom.

  —Shawna Hausman

  I asked.

  They answered.

  I wrote.

  —Sebastian Junger

  No future, no past. Not lost.

  —Matt Brensilver

  Extremely responsible, secretly

  longed for spontaneity.

  —Sabra Jennings

  Joined Army. Came out.

  Got booted.

  —Johan Baumeister

  Almost a victim of my family.

  —Chuck Sangster

  The psychic said I’d be richer.

  —Elizabeth Bernstein

  Grumpy old soundman

  needs love, too.

  —Lennie Rosengard

  Mom died, Dad screwed us over.

  —Lesley Kysely

  Painful nerd kid,

  happy nerd adult.

  —Linda Williamson

  Write abo
ut sex,

  learn about love.

  —Martha Garvey

  Stole wife. Lost friends.

  Now happy.

  —Po Bronson

  Fourteen years old,

  story still untold.

  —David Gidwani

  One long train ride to darkness.

  —Wayne Colodny

  Wolf! She cried.

  No one listened.

  —May Lee

  I’m my mother and I’m fine.

  —K. Bertrand

  All day I dream about sex.

  —Guro Tupchileshtoff

  I still make coffee for two.

  —Zak Nelson

  I like girls. Girls like boys.

  —Andrea Dela Cruz

  Never should have bought that

  ring.

  —Paul Bellows

  Sold belongings. Became Itinerant

  Poetry Librarian.

  —Sara Wingate Gray

  Tombstone won’t say

  “had health insurance.”

  —Dean Haspiel

  Stranded by ten-

  thousand-

  mile crush.

  —Will Cockrell

  Wasted time regretted

  so life reinvented.

  —Vicky Oppus

  College was fun.

  Damn student loans.

  —Randy Boland

  Semicolons;

  I use them to excess.

  —Iris Page

  God chose. Said no. Now what?

  —Adam Blackman

  Time heals all wounds? Not quite.

  —Jonathan Miles

  Oldest of five. Four degrees. Broke.

  —Kaitlin Walsh

  Made a mess. Cleaned it up.

  —Amy Anderson

  A crush on Susan Sarandon.

  Unrequited.

  —Willy Edge

  Says deaf boyfriend:

  you’re too quiet.

  —Anna Jane Grossman

  Alive 38 years, feels like 83.

  —Bryan Lowry

  My family is overflowing with therapists.

  —Shaina Feinberg

  Boy, if I had a

  hammer.

  —Tim Barkow

  We still don’t hear a single.

  —Adam Schlesinger

  Canada freezing. Gotham

  beckons. Hello, Si!

  —Graydon Carter

  Years in the closet.

  Why? Why?

  —Michael Callahan

  Docens liberos veritatem

  vitam mihi docet.

  —Michael Farmer

  I did ask to live backwards.

  —Helen Glynn

  Forest peace, sharing vision,

  always optimistic.

  —Dr. Jane Goodall

  Bespectacled, besneakered,

  read and ran around.

  —Rachel Fershleiser

  Supported the sublime

  with uncurbed

  enthusiasm.

  —Jeff Newelt

  Followed white rabbit.

  Became black sheep.

  —Gabrielle Maconi

  Middle of seven

  made me me.

  —Susan Sinnott

  The woman formerly

  known as Marissa.

  —Mimi Ghez

  Followed yellow brick road.

  Disappointment ensued.

  —Kelsey Ochs

  Nerdy girl smutmonger.

  Now, baby fever.

  —Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Born free, but lost my country.

  —Ted O’Brien

  Recent doctorate means overeducated

  and underemployed.

  —Philip Sternberg

  Taking a lifetime to grow up.

  —Mirona Iliescu

  Living for Jesus because

  earth sucks.

  —Johnny Johnson

  Bad brakes

  discovered

  at high speed.

  —Paul Schultz

  Danced in

  Fields

  of Infinite

  Possibilities.

  —Deepak Chopra

  Soul’d out so I could

  prophet.

  —Gotham Chopra

  Strange name.

  Transparent shame.

  Instant fame.

  —Bumble Ward

  In the office. It smells here.

  —Meera Parthasarathy

  I am trying, in every regard.

  —Lionel Shriver

  Birth, childhood,

  adolescence, adolescence,

  adolescence, adolescence...

  —Jim Gladstone

  Happiest when ignoring

  huge financial debt.

  —Ayanna Bryan

  —Keith Knight

  Not pretty enough

  so now unemployed.

  —Stacey Smith

  I threw away my teddy

  bear.

  —Margot Loren

  Mistakes were made,

  but smarter now.

  —Christine Triano

  Likes everything too

  much to choose.

  —Rachel Lindenthal

  Curly haired sad kid chose fun.

  —Stacy Abramson

  Now I blog and drink wine.

  —Peter Bartlett

  Egomaniac with inferiority

  complex defies odds.

  —Lynne Vittorio

  I thought I was someone else.

  —Tysa Goodrich

  Dancing for now,

  one day farming.

  —Eleanor Carpenter

  Amazing grace: born naked,

  clothed others.

  —Mark Budman

  Followed rules, not dreams. Never again.

  —Margaret Hellerstein

  My baby’s name was Sydney

  Jane.

  —Margot Bertoni

  Love the men.

  Hate the commitment.

  —Lindsay Filz

  I grew and grew and grew.

  —Randy Newcomer

  Starving artist.

  Lucky break.

  Life downhill.

  —Will Samson

  Changing mind postponed

  demise by decades.

  —Scott O’Neil

  My spiritual path is 100 proof.

  —John House

  Wanted world,

  got world plus lupus.

  —Liz Futrell

  Yes to every date, met mate.

  —Maria Dahvana Headley

  The Hustle: turn champion

  into sucker.

  —Amarillo Slim

  I was born

  some assembly

  required.

  —Eric Jordan

  I drank too much last night.

  —Meg McIntyre

  Study mathematics. Marry slut.

  Sum bad.

  —Dan Robinson

  Took scenic route, got in late.

  —Will Blythe

  Raised Jehovah’s Witness.

  Excommunicated at 22.

  —Kyria Abrahams

  I like big butts,

  can’t lie.

  —Dave Russ

  I’m enjoying

  downward

  even this

  dance.

  —Colum McCann

  Without ideas, intelligence could not exist!

  —Ornette Coleman

  I hope to outlive my regrets.

  —Bob Logan

  All night phone calls

  complete me.

  —Harry Manning

  Tragic childhood can

  lead to wisdom.

  —Kristin Ahlemeier-Olfe

  Sweet wife, good sons—

  I’m rich.

  —Roger Waggener

  Barrister, barista,

  what’s the diff, Mom?

  —Abigail Moorhouse

  Mom, Dad. D
aphne, Owen.

  Who’s next?

  —Sean Wilsey

  Which comes first:

  tequila or accident?

  —Penelope Whitney

  Doing more for less is life.

  —Rondell Conway

  Cried. Defied, Denied. Sighed.

  Died. Reapplied.

  —Josh Gosfield

  A sundress will solve

  life’s woes.

  —Kristen Grimm

  I recognize red flags

  faster, now.

  —Barbara Burri

  I sucked even the lobster legs.

  —Rufus Griscom

  Anything’s possible with

  an extension cord.

  —billySIRR

  In and out of hot water.

  —Piper Kerman

  Life has gone to the dogs.

  —Ted Rheingold

  Moved to SF. Geek, not gay.

  —Ryan King

  Nothing profound,

  I just sat around.

  —Daniel Rosenburg

  Found true love,

  married someone

  else.

  —Bjorn Stromberg

  Others left early: he

  continued looking.

  —Anthony Swofford

  Shy Jersey kid,

  overcompensating ever since.

  —Ariel Kaminer

  Dad died, mom crazy, me, too.

  —Moby

  Being a

  monk stunk.

  Better gay.

  —Bob Redman

  Quiet guy; please pay closer attention.

  —Jonathan Lesser

  Oklahoma girl meets world.

  Regrets it.

  —Gretchen Wahl

  Life was but a dream,

  merrily.

  —Paul W. Morris

  Happiness

  is a warm

  salami

  sandwich.

  —Stanley Bing

  Creative and destructive