I have a dangerously good memory. About 85% of the time, it’s correct about any given situation or conversations down to the smallest details. The other 15% of the time, it just makes shit up and feeds it to the rest of my brain as fact. And I’ll stubbornly die by my facts, even when they’re not actual facts. This is ironic, because people want to kill me when I do this. That’s why it’s dangerous.
Yesterday, a long-time co-worker mentioned a project I’d worked on eight-ish years ago. She told me how awesome it was. And I told her that I didn’t know what she was talking about and that she was insane. Then she fed me a few more details. Then I remembered and felt ridiculous. So what did I forget?
I wrote a book. I was paid to write it, or rather my agency was paid for me to write it. But I wrote it. Then I wrote the pitch letter to Chronicle Books. And then I never thought about it again. Until yesterday.
Turns out that Chronicle published it in 2007. It appears that it was minimally edited. It has a four-star average customer review on Amazon. And because I was paid to write it, it has someone else’s name on it.
But, hey, I’m published. And people say nice things, like: “The author has a great sense of humor” and “Brilliant” and “Awesome.” (Actually, that’s all from the same reviewer, but he was my favorite.)
I wrote a book and promptly forgot. I need to remember that next time I’m in an argument over memory. If I can.