I've never kept a diary for more than a few weeks. It never worked out. Any time something interesting was happening in my life, I was too busy to write about it in my diary. Whenever I had time to write, it was because nothing interesting was occupying my time.
I've always wanted to commit to paper and ink the stories my grandfather and other older relatives told me. Add to that, the fact that the author of a popular autobiographer once told me (when I was 26 years old he was 55) that I had had a more eventful life than he had.
I've never felt like writing a book of memories—my memories or the memories of people I've known—because I'd rather concentrate on what I plan to do than what I've already done. Still, I would like to enrich the next generation with the kinds of tales I'd heard from others, and further enrich them with tales from my own life.
Aside from the tales in my own life, how did I come by these tales? Not by books, chapters, short stories, or long-winded tales but by anecdotes. For this reason, I've chosen to use a fairly new technology to express an old art form: the anecdote.
I hope you enjoy them.
(Oh, in case you wonder about the name of the blog, it's the result of my frustration with trying to come up with a URL that was available. I grew so frustrated by more than a dozen possible names and URLs that I was tempted to use a string of vulgar words for the URL to see if that was available. Finally, Curmudgeonly Reflections passed muster.)
