by Larry Smith
Not Quite What I Was Planning
Six-word Memoirs
by Writers Famous and Obscure
From Smith Magazine
Edited by Rachel Fershleiser and Larry Smith
Contents
Introduction
Begin Reading
Searchable Terms
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
LEGEND HAS IT THAT ERNEST HEMINGWAY WAS ONCE challenged to write a story in six words. Papa came back swinging with, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Some say he called it his best work. Others dismiss the anecdote as a literary folktale. Either way, the six-word story was born, and it’s been popping around the writing world for years.
Launched online in 2006, SMITH Magazine celebrates personal storytelling and the ways in which technology has fueled storytelling’s growth and infinite possibilities. We like to be both populist and aspirational, blurring the line between professional and amateur. So in November 2006, while thousands of people were cranking out tens of thousands of words during annual National Novel Writing Month, SMITH decided to lower the bar. We gave Hemingway’s form a new, personal twist: What would a six-word memoir look like?
We asked our friends; they liked the idea. We ran it by memoirists we admire; they loved the challenge. We shared it with the tech communication wizards at Twitter.com; they wanted to team up to deliver a sixworder a day, free to anyone with a cell phone and a love of stories. With those pieces in place, we invited our readers to submit their short, short life stories for a contest—a battle of brevity.
Soon, six-word wonders were zipping across the Net—from laptops to SMITH, from Twitter to cell phones, from writers to their blogs, from readers to one another. And before we knew it, submissions were coming in by the thousands. Folks from all over the world sent in their sublime frustrations (“One tooth, one cavity, life’s cruel”) and inspired aspirations (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah!”), their divine wisdom (“Savior complex makes for many disappointments”), and deepest inner secrets (“I like big butts, can’t lie”). And while most of the memoirs were penned by writers who have not been published (until now), others came from household names—from Aimee Mann (whose six is like a short, sweet song) to Mario Batali (who sent a generous half dozen to our table) to Joan Rivers (as outrageous and wonderful as you’d imagine).
We were most struck by the openness of the memoirists—and by their desire to share even more of their lives with perfect strangers. People sent us pictures of the adorable children they’d just admitted, in six words, they regretted having. One woman wrote us a letter detailing the infertility developments that had rendered her hopeful memoir obsolete. “Whole lifetimes happen in people’s lives every day,” she wrote, “so I suspect many memoirists write what’s true at the time only to find their lives drastically different a short distance in the future.”
The enthused author of “Hockey is not just for boys” sent in a photo essay of chicks with sticks, plus the skate-blade sharpening machine of which she’s grown so fond. An artist in San Francisco followed up his book illustration with a comic strip about Anna Nicole Smith. We received photos of deceased wives in bridal gowns, of the tiny headstones of babies lost. An accountant in Florida requested a snail-mail address; soon a packet of miniature origami animals arrived at our office.
Others were rising to the occasion in ways we hadn’t expected. We heard that teachers were assigning six-word memoirs to their students; that families were trading six-word memoirs across their dinner tables; that pet fanatics were writing them for their dogs.
We became as obsessed as our own memoirists. Wisdom started to appear everywhere in six-word increments. When a hand dryer in a public restroom bore the graffiti “love me or leave me alone,” we took it as a six-word sign from above. We had whole conversations while counting on our fingers (and one thumb) for six-word legitimacy. We found ourselves debating the validity of hyphens over dinner and drinks. (Just how many words is “three-legged cat”?)
The fruit of this amazing response? You’re holding it in your hands.
One of the delights of reading six-word memoirs is imagining the writer behind those few carefully chosen words. Despite the well-documented dangers of assumption, we were surprised to learn how many of the real-life writers were nothing like we expected.
The bittersweet “Cursed with cancer. Blessed with friends” came not from a wise, optimistic grandmother, but a nine-year-old thyroid-cancer survivor. The brave girl’s mother wrote to say that her daughter had sat alone at the computer for hours selecting her words, and then checked SMITH each day, hoping to see her name on the screen. The poignant “I still make coffee for two” didn’t come from the shaky hand of an elderly widower, but a recently dumped twenty-seven-year-old dude with a fondness for caffeine. After months of reading six-word memoirs barely noticing the writer’s name, sometimes we were delighted by words seven and eight. After all, could you ask for a better life story from Deepak Chopra’s son than “Soul’d out so I could prophet”?
This book is a glorious mishmash of these and myriad other voices; it’s a thousand little windows into humanity—six words at a time. Whether the results are shocking, strange, silly, or sad, we hope you’ll agree that they are always entertaining, often inspiring, and totally addictive.
In the autobiographical spirit of SMITH Magazine, the photos and illustrations that appear here arrived from the writers themselves. To see hundreds of images we didn’t have room for, plus new memoirs every day, go to www.sixwordmemoir.com. While you’re there, you just might be struck by an overwhelming desire to supply a six-word memoir of your own. And why wouldn’t you: Everyone has a story—what’s yours?
The editors of SMITH Magazine
September 2007
New York, NY
After Harvard, had
baby with crackhead.
—Robin Templeton
Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.
—Bill Querengesser
Watching quietly from
every door frame.
—Nicole Resseguie
Catholic school backfired.
Sin is in!
—Nikki Beland
Savior complex makes for
many disappointments.
—Alanna Schubach
Nobody cared, then they did.
Why?
—Chuck Klosterman
Some cross-eyed kid,
forgotten then found.
—Diana Welch
She said she was negative.
Damn.
—Ryan McRae
Born in the desert,
still thirsty.
—Georgene Nunn
A sake mom, not soccer mom.
—Shawna Hausman
I asked.
They answered.
I wrote.
—Sebastian Junger
No future, no past. Not lost.
—Matt Brensilver
Extremely responsible, secretly
longed for spontaneity.
—Sabra Jennings
Joined Army. Came out.
Got booted.
—Johan Baumeister
Almost a victim of my family.
—Chuck Sangster
The psychic said I’d be richer.
—Elizabeth Bernstein
Grumpy old soundman
needs love, too.
—Lennie Rosengard
Mom died, Dad screwed us over.
—Lesley Kysely
Painful nerd kid,
happy nerd adult.
—Linda Williamson
Write abo
ut sex,
learn about love.
—Martha Garvey
Stole wife. Lost friends.
Now happy.
—Po Bronson
Fourteen years old,
story still untold.
—David Gidwani
One long train ride to darkness.
—Wayne Colodny
Wolf! She cried.
No one listened.
—May Lee
I’m my mother and I’m fine.
—K. Bertrand
All day I dream about sex.
—Guro Tupchileshtoff
I still make coffee for two.
—Zak Nelson
I like girls. Girls like boys.
—Andrea Dela Cruz
Never should have bought that
ring.
—Paul Bellows
Sold belongings. Became Itinerant
Poetry Librarian.
—Sara Wingate Gray
Tombstone won’t say
“had health insurance.”
—Dean Haspiel
Stranded by ten-
thousand-
mile crush.
—Will Cockrell
Wasted time regretted
so life reinvented.
—Vicky Oppus
College was fun.
Damn student loans.
—Randy Boland
Semicolons;
I use them to excess.
—Iris Page
God chose. Said no. Now what?
—Adam Blackman
Time heals all wounds? Not quite.
—Jonathan Miles
Oldest of five. Four degrees. Broke.
—Kaitlin Walsh
Made a mess. Cleaned it up.
—Amy Anderson
A crush on Susan Sarandon.
Unrequited.
—Willy Edge
Says deaf boyfriend:
you’re too quiet.
—Anna Jane Grossman
Alive 38 years, feels like 83.
—Bryan Lowry
My family is overflowing with therapists.
—Shaina Feinberg
Boy, if I had a
hammer.
—Tim Barkow
We still don’t hear a single.
—Adam Schlesinger
Canada freezing. Gotham
beckons. Hello, Si!
—Graydon Carter
Years in the closet.
Why? Why?
—Michael Callahan
Docens liberos veritatem
vitam mihi docet.
—Michael Farmer
I did ask to live backwards.
—Helen Glynn
Forest peace, sharing vision,
always optimistic.
—Dr. Jane Goodall
Bespectacled, besneakered,
read and ran around.
—Rachel Fershleiser
Supported the sublime
with uncurbed
enthusiasm.
—Jeff Newelt
Followed white rabbit.
Became black sheep.
—Gabrielle Maconi
Middle of seven
made me me.
—Susan Sinnott
The woman formerly
known as Marissa.
—Mimi Ghez
Followed yellow brick road.
Disappointment ensued.
—Kelsey Ochs
Nerdy girl smutmonger.
Now, baby fever.
—Rachel Kramer Bussel
Born free, but lost my country.
—Ted O’Brien
Recent doctorate means overeducated
and underemployed.
—Philip Sternberg
Taking a lifetime to grow up.
—Mirona Iliescu
Living for Jesus because
earth sucks.
—Johnny Johnson
Bad brakes
discovered
at high speed.
—Paul Schultz
Danced in
Fields
of Infinite
Possibilities.
—Deepak Chopra
Soul’d out so I could
prophet.
—Gotham Chopra
Strange name.
Transparent shame.
Instant fame.
—Bumble Ward
In the office. It smells here.
—Meera Parthasarathy
I am trying, in every regard.
—Lionel Shriver
Birth, childhood,
adolescence, adolescence,
adolescence, adolescence...
—Jim Gladstone
Happiest when ignoring
huge financial debt.
—Ayanna Bryan
—Keith Knight
Not pretty enough
so now unemployed.
—Stacey Smith
I threw away my teddy
bear.
—Margot Loren
Mistakes were made,
but smarter now.
—Christine Triano
Likes everything too
much to choose.
—Rachel Lindenthal
Curly haired sad kid chose fun.
—Stacy Abramson
Now I blog and drink wine.
—Peter Bartlett
Egomaniac with inferiority
complex defies odds.
—Lynne Vittorio
I thought I was someone else.
—Tysa Goodrich
Dancing for now,
one day farming.
—Eleanor Carpenter
Amazing grace: born naked,
clothed others.
—Mark Budman
Followed rules, not dreams. Never again.
—Margaret Hellerstein
My baby’s name was Sydney
Jane.
—Margot Bertoni
Love the men.
Hate the commitment.
—Lindsay Filz
I grew and grew and grew.
—Randy Newcomer
Starving artist.
Lucky break.
Life downhill.
—Will Samson
Changing mind postponed
demise by decades.
—Scott O’Neil
My spiritual path is 100 proof.
—John House
Wanted world,
got world plus lupus.
—Liz Futrell
Yes to every date, met mate.
—Maria Dahvana Headley
The Hustle: turn champion
into sucker.
—Amarillo Slim
I was born
some assembly
required.
—Eric Jordan
I drank too much last night.
—Meg McIntyre
Study mathematics. Marry slut.
Sum bad.
—Dan Robinson
Took scenic route, got in late.
—Will Blythe
Raised Jehovah’s Witness.
Excommunicated at 22.
—Kyria Abrahams
I like big butts,
can’t lie.
—Dave Russ
I’m enjoying
downward
even this
dance.
—Colum McCann
Without ideas, intelligence could not exist!
—Ornette Coleman
I hope to outlive my regrets.
—Bob Logan
All night phone calls
complete me.
—Harry Manning
Tragic childhood can
lead to wisdom.
—Kristin Ahlemeier-Olfe
Sweet wife, good sons—
I’m rich.
—Roger Waggener
Barrister, barista,
what’s the diff, Mom?
—Abigail Moorhouse
Mom, Dad. D
aphne, Owen.
Who’s next?
—Sean Wilsey
Which comes first:
tequila or accident?
—Penelope Whitney
Doing more for less is life.
—Rondell Conway
Cried. Defied, Denied. Sighed.
Died. Reapplied.
—Josh Gosfield
A sundress will solve
life’s woes.
—Kristen Grimm
I recognize red flags
faster, now.
—Barbara Burri
I sucked even the lobster legs.
—Rufus Griscom
Anything’s possible with
an extension cord.
—billySIRR
In and out of hot water.
—Piper Kerman
Life has gone to the dogs.
—Ted Rheingold
Moved to SF. Geek, not gay.
—Ryan King
Nothing profound,
I just sat around.
—Daniel Rosenburg
Found true love,
married someone
else.
—Bjorn Stromberg
Others left early: he
continued looking.
—Anthony Swofford
Shy Jersey kid,
overcompensating ever since.
—Ariel Kaminer
Dad died, mom crazy, me, too.
—Moby
Being a
monk stunk.
Better gay.
—Bob Redman
Quiet guy; please pay closer attention.
—Jonathan Lesser
Oklahoma girl meets world.
Regrets it.
—Gretchen Wahl
Life was but a dream,
merrily.
—Paul W. Morris
Happiness
is a warm
salami
sandwich.
—Stanley Bing
Creative and destructive
