I started the Eskepades epiblogue a year ago and have been pretty miserable about keeping it in shape. I confess the same goes for my body as I recently learned when a man thrice my weight beat me to the top of a hill on my morning walk to Happy Donut.
It’s not time for resolutions yet since it’s only November, but it is time for a new jumpstart. Tomorrow I’m going to join a gym (really I am) and although I can’t promise full and thoughtful blogs every day, there will be tweets.
The big life update since my last post is that the other Aaron and I moved to San Francisco with our dog Cow. You’ll probably see a lot more of them in the ‘snapshots’ section.
The other Aaron drives us from DC to SF. Cow offers her support. I apparently just awoke from a nap somewhere around Indiana.
More soon…
Preamble to the Epilogue
We the people love a good orphan story. So much so that as I write this, twenty-five of the fifty all-time highest-grossing movies where I live in the United States feature an orphaned protagonist. We’re captivated by parentless tales of the Caped Crusader, a hobbit from the shire, a Jedi Knight from a galaxy far, far away, and the boy with a scar on his forehead who lived to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Ever since baby Moses drifted along the banks of the Nile and into the Pharaoh’s palace, countless fantastical orphans have grown so intertwined in our collective heritage that we know their stories by heart.
I have my own story about orphans that is a little different from all of the others. Although my quest involves some villains and each hero in my story has a weakness, my narrative isn’t like Batman’s or Frodo’s or Harry Potter’s. That’s because the orphans in my life are nonfictional. They are my brother and sisters, and this is our family’s memoir.
Those are two opening paragraphs from my first book that comes out in two weeks. It’s my memoir, which is pretty preposterous considering I’m not even old enough to be a Senator if I wanted to be a Senator, which I don’t because I don’t like waking up early for breakfast or raising money — and I especially wouldn’t like waking up early to raise money at a breakfast. I am old enough to be a Congressman though, not that I’d want to be one of those either. Hair parts weren’t a good look for me in the ’90s and they’re not much better now.
One of the perks for readers of memoir writers who aren’t dead or hyper-combed politicians is that there are still new and fun memories to be made. And that’s what I’ll be attempting to do here for you. It’s like an epilogue. With videos. And occasional links to things I like. Like this:
