My Memoir, A Journey I Travel Alone

It’s true I have a story to tell, a fascinating one at that, unfortunately, I’m not a story teller.  I wouldn’t even consider myself a writer.  What I do is just jot down my thoughts, opinions and the memories I have from long ago.  A writer is not someone who write words, it’s someone who actually paints a picture in your mind.  They take you were you’ve never been before and create a world you’ve never seen.   They provoke a feeling simply by the words they use.  If you close your eyes, you can envision the place the writer had taken you without ever being there.  You can cry, laugh, feel angry or love for someone you’ve never knew and follow them on a journey without ever leaving your home.   That’s what a writer does.   What I do, is just tell you in words what life was like for me as a child.  I can’t show you, I can only tell you.  I can’t take you on the journey of my life, I can only tell you about it.  For those who still want to call me a writer simply because you’re being kind, then you can also call me a doctor simply because I put a Band-Aid on a cut.  I know, I’m being a little cynical but you understand what I’m trying to say. 

The cover of my book. It's a painting I did
of the house I grew up in.

As far as writing my book: tentatively titled “The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive,” it’s a personal project I took upon myself to do.   I took it because I was told I couldn’t do it but it was me telling myself that.   I often tell myself what I can’t do because I was preconditioned to do so. I grew up in a family where support was replaced by ridicule and criticism.  There was never a pat on the back for a job well done but rather a quick reminder that I will never be as great as my father, let alone deserving to be his son.   My Grandmother was a harsh and cruel lady who often reminded me of three things.  1-I was retarded.  She based that upon my speech impairment derived from a hearing deficiency I had while growing up.  Also, I lacked the understanding of things around me.  I was a simple child, sensitive and quiet feeling trapped in a wall of distorted sound and unprovoked animosity.  The 2ed thing my Grandmother often reminded me was that I was adopted.  “You are not a true Spector” she often told me and because of that, which lead to the 3^rd thing, I will never be as great of a person as her son.

The purpose of me writing this book is a simple one: prove to myself I can.  However, like most of

us, I’m haunted by voices of my past telling me otherwise.   I do not write this book because of who my father is.  I do not write this book because people want me to and I certainly do no write this book to make money.  I’m writing it because I honestly think I have an interesting story to tell and the story I have to tell is a simple one:  Don’t let your limitations limit your dreams.  Don’t let your family dictate who you are and above all, don’t stop believing in yourself.  Life is what YOU make it- work with your limitations don’t use them as excuses.   Of course, it’s easier to say these things then actually do them as I’m still struggling to write a book that I’ve started many years ago.  Personally, I wish to hire a writer, it would be so much easier but it would be cheating myself out of a challenge I took upon myself and it would be cheating you out of an honest book.  Too many “celebrities” take the easy way out and hire someone to write their story for them.  I’m not saying it’s wrong, I just feel the need to do something different, something truer.  Of course once the book is done I will hire someone to go over it because as much as I would like the book to be in its truest form, I also wouldn’t want the person reading the book to have to endure all my misspelled words, incomplete sentences, overly long winded paragraphs or my unclear  descriptions.   In the end, when I’m done, it needs to be a book I’m proud of.  In other words, it will be done when I feel it’s done and because I’m not a writer, that may take a while but it’s a journey I need to take alone and the way I write, it’s a journey that the reader can never join me on, but I’m more than happy to tell you what it was like while growing up with my father and how I broke down the wall of  sound and found my voice.

The Awkward Conversationalist

I’m not big on talking. I find myself rushing through conversation as if I need somewhere to be, somewhere other than talking about whatever’s on your mind.  I don’t engage in lengthy conversation and I’m not comfortable with familiarity when it comes to acquaintance at work or in places I shop.  It’s not that I’m stuck up or think no one is worth my time, it’s that I don’t know how to comfortable talk to people.   As a child I never really built up my social skills, hardly had anyone to talk to outside of my home.  I also had a speech impairment and because of that, people found it hard to understand what I was saying.  I grew up thinking no one wanted to talk to me.  They would rather talk to someone who knew what they were talking about then a child who couldn’t be understood.   As an adult, I still feel the same: that the person I’m talking with would much rather talk to someone else.  I wish I could change it, but at my age, I am who I am.  It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.   I feel awkward, nervous and fearful.  Scared that they will see the child whose words failed him.  Scared they will think that I do not know what I’m talking about.   Also, around the time I feel a lengthy conversation is on its way I jump ahead of myself and worry about what we are going to talk about next, or if there is anything to talk about at all.  What if I draw a blank, say something stupid or the topic changes to politics, sports or the meaning of life?    What do I say?  It’s just so much easier to excuse myself and leave yet, I wish to talk. Perhaps my desire to play Grand Theft Auto is not so much for the pleasure of the game but for the company of strangers talking to each other.   

Today a lady talked to me, a casual conversation that normally ends before it really begins as my body motions let’s her know I need to be doing something else.    When I thought the conversation over I moved further away, only to be brought back by her continuing interest in what I had to say.  She was sitting down, waiting for her food, I was on her right side, then her left side but never in front.  In front is reserved for the people she would be interested in actually talking to such as her peers or friends.  Not someone like me.   She sat alone expecting no one and waiting for no one.  She just likes to talk. I try to make it a point not to talk about my father, but truth be told, he’s my security blanket.  He’s who I talk about when I fear I’ve got nothing more to say, when I think the person is losing interest.  I hate that I do that, but it’s a habit now more than anything.  It when someone walked by that she got up to say good-by to them when I took the opportunity to leave.  It’s not that I wanted to stop talking to her, I just feel more awkward when left out, as if I’m no longer needed, as if it’s my cue to leave.   Only, I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish I wasn’t so awkward around people or that I believed enough in myself that I felt I was worth there time because though I give the illusion that no one is worth my time, truth be told, it’s the other way around.