At a writers’ conference in Dallas several years ago, a bunch of us opted for the group excursion to the Mesquite Rodeo; not because we’d never seen one, but because no trip to Texas is complete without barbecue and rodeo.
So there we were, sitting up in the stands, eating brisket with our fingers and soaking up the ambiance. The humid air formed hazy halos around the lights. Carrying American flags and mounted on paints, cowgirls in sequined red, white and blue careened around the arena at a reckless gallop. Cattle lowed and horses neighed as King George (as in Strait) reminded the crowd that all his exes lived right there in the Lone Star State. Meanwhile, women of all ages clustered near an unpainted fence beneath and behind the stands, trying to act nonchalant as they jostled for position, trying to catch a glimpse – or better yet, the eyes – of the bull riders.
It was perfect.
We’d just finished our brisket – were, in fact, in the process of licking our fingers – when the announcer let everyone know we were there: “The Mesquite Rodeo would like to welcome our visitors from the writers’ conference.”
So, of course, everyone turned around to look for us, and we weren’t hard to find. Nothing sticks out at a rodeo quite like a gaggle of wide-eyed, overdressed women sitting shoulder to shoulder and licking their fingers. We waved timidly, got a nice round of applause – which didn’t hurt our egos any – and settled down to watch the show.
Now, if you’ve ever met a Texan, you know they’re not a shy people. It’s not that they’re pushy, they’re just unselfconscious, friendly and straightforward. Most Texans have never met a stranger, which is their way of saying that the moment they meet you, you’re the next best thing to neighbors. That being the case, I shouldn’t have been surprised when a lady sitting one row down turned to face me.
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You write books?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Listen,” she said earnestly, “you really need to write a book about my life.”
Uh oh. “Oh? Have you led an interesting life?”
“Honey, you have no idea! I’ve always thought I should write a book about it, but I’ll bet you could do it better.”
Let me begin by saying I was touched by her confidence in me, uninformed or no. I was also touched by her sincerity and apparent excitement over the prospect of wowing the masses when her life came out in print. And, to be fair, she may have led an exceptionally adventurous, interesting life, and maybe I missed my chance to write a New York Times bestseller. But here’s the thing, the bad news I didn’t have the heart to tell her: Unless you were on the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963, discover a cure for cancer while mixing your hair color or come out on top during the next season of American Idol, nobody is interested in the story of your life … not John Q. Public and certainly not Random House.
The moral of the story is this: “Tattle Tales” are family stories I’m setting down, for family. Do I mind if you read them? Nope. Do I expect you to read them? Nope. But consider yourself forewarned: We think they’re hilarious; you may not get it, not knowing the people involved. I would, however, encourage you to write down your own family stories. You probably won’t earn any royalties, but it’s a great way to pass down the things that count.
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