Writing a Memoir About Writing Memoir: For Dummies

I am just venting here:I do not want want to write about my memoir ideas in the community blog area. I have skimmed other stories; my thoughts seem so minute to what some other people had to go through. I feel pathetic. The one person's memoir about losing their dog was terribly moving and brought tears to my eyes (and I don't even like dogs!). Then, I read another person's memoir about how their friend got shot! What am I going to post... that my father knocked me around a few times? It seems so dramatic and callow compared to the other stories. The professor emailed me the idea: write a memoir about writing a memoir; it got me thinking. Could I write a memoir about writing a memoir? The idea puzzles me, yet resonates with me somehow. The idea makes me think about what I have been doing my whole life: scribbling my thoughts and feelings aimlessly in notebooks, on computers, and in random diaries. My dream is to publish a novel, but I am worried I will never be able to just write a full book. Maybe my novel title could be: The Book I was Never Going to Write by Me (trying to stay anonymous here). Underneath the title could be the subheading: "a collection of personal short-stories and poems". Okay, but seriously guys how do I write a memoir about writing a memoir?

  

I could write about my first day of Freshman year (but it could be too lengthy).

 I sluggishly opened my sleep crusted covered eyelids to an exasperating sight.  There was a hefty, black alarm clock with neon green numbers piercing my eyes.  The sight came with a shrill ringing sound that rattled through my miniscule bedroom. I slammed my right hand against the snooze button and covered my fleece blanket over my head.  Less than ten minutes passed, and the vexing sound began again. While stalling to get out of bed, I thought about summer vacation.  The summer of 2010 went by faster than a shooting star; I saw it, and in the blink of an eye, it was gone.  As I ventured to the bathroom, I expected my mother to be awake in the kitchen cooking scrumptious blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon.  To my surprise, I walked into a dark, empty kitchen with the stove turned off, and carry-out dinner from last night sitting on the counter.  There were no steaming pancakes or eggs placed on the kitchen table, and the orange juice was hiding in the fridge.  I stood there, staring at the depressing scene, and heard a drop from the leaky faucet hit the center of the sink.  My father was supposed to fix that last week, but it got procrastinated along with the other numerous house projects he had on his list.  The rotten stench of Chinese take-out streamed through my nose. The reek of two-day-old orange chicken and fried rice forced me to lose my appetite for breakfast altogether. The oven clock read 6:45, so I staggered off into my room to get dressed.  While digging through my mountainous piles of clothes, I put on an old Rolling Stones t-shirt with a pair of black Converse shoes.  The dirty mirror in my room mocked my flaws.  My reflection showed me three pimples on my chin, chapped lips, and scruffy eyebrows that were in need of waxing.  Sighing, I slowly painted my eye lashes with deep black CoverGirl mascara and powdered my face with cover-up and bronzer.  After brushing through my ratty hair, I grabbed my toothbrush to clean my yellow tinted teeth.  Before leaving the bathroom, I checked the mirror a second time hoping I would be satisfied with what I saw staring back at me.  My reflection merely showed a young girl who looked as if she was trying to pose as 16.  The mascara that covered my eyes looked clumpy, and my bangs from an eighth-grade haircut were greasy.  My mom screeched at me from the bedroom, “You are going to miss the bus! It’s 7:10!” As I rushed out of the house wearing two mismatching socks, I never thought that I would dread this day for the rest of my life.