I Know Nusing!

It finally happened. I couldn't remember a thing.

The editor who was creating the book was interested in an essay I had written some time ago. It had been published in a magazine (ten years ago?). "I'm assuming you still retain the rights to this?" he asked.

"I don't remember,"I said. "But I assume so."

"What were the circumstances around the essay? Why did you write it?"

"I don't remember," I said. "But I assume I wrote it to make some money."

"Can't remember writing it?"

"No," I admitted.

But holy guacamole, I didn't have the heart to tell him that I write upwards of million words a year. How can I remember everything? I didn't have the heart to tell him that, at last check, I also have a wife and two kids . . . but I'll be jiggered if I can remember their names half the time. I also assume my wife and I have done the bedroom tango a few times . . . but I'll have to study up on the particulars to re-learn the various components and how all the parts work (I've got a John Deere manual that should work and I'm going to ask my wife for instructions when I see her in November).

I'm not sure if other writers have these problems with memory. But I know nothing. Don't ask me what I've written. I won't even be able to find it. Just ask me if I can write something new.