Have you ever read On Writing by Stephen King? If you have, you’ll know what I’m doing here. If not, I’ll explain it the best I can.

Some autobiographies read like well plotted stories, and often make me wonder if the writer is being completely honest. One of the things that has always stuck a disbelief nerve with me has been the amount of detail a writer can pump into their story, particularly their childhood. I sometimes have trouble remembering last week, let alone fifteen odd years back. My autobiography, if I ever write one, won’t read like a well structured story with a beginning, middle and an end. My story will be told through vague recollections, becoming more and more clear only as the years close in to the current time of writing.

What follows is a series of memories from my childhood. They may have been positive or negative experiences, but one thing is true of all of them; they have all made an impact on who I am today, otherwise I wouldn’t remember them at all. As I said, I only have vague memories, and writing this is almost like trying to remember a dream you once had, the details are there but sometimes I just can’t grasp them.

I also have to extend a debt of gratitude to boys kiss girls, as her series Memories also inspired my trip down foggy memory lane. She also reminded me how to dream, which is something I’m eternally grateful for.

So here it goes; a series of disjointed reminiscences written by another blank face in the crowd and who knows, maybe at the very least I’ll learn something about myself. If not, well, at least I tried, right?

Cheers.