Writing and Publishing a Memoir

To commemorate the completion of my memoir, Behind the Codeine Curtain, I decided to post the first very first paragraph of the prologue.  Narcissistic? I know.  Self centered?  Yes.  But I wanted to see them up there on the screen since it my be months, years, before they finally appear in print and - who knows? - by that time all we may have in any event are e-books.  So here goes.

I line them up before me on the marble counter, an orderly regiment of small brown and yellow cardboard boxes emblazoned with red Cyrillic letters that read Terpinkod.  Each box contains 10 little white pills neatly arrayed like soldiers standing to attention.  I sigh with relief as I look down at the familiar, comforting sight.  Eight packs, enough to get me through the afternoon.  With practiced fingers I quickly free the tabletky from their confinement with a satisfying pop that reminds me of the childhood sound of bubble wrap squeezed between thumb and forefinger as I helped my dad unpack wood stoves from their shipping containers at his store.  A miniature pyramid several inches tall rises quickly before me.  I fill a weighted, leaded glass cup with water and shovel the pills into my mouth in handfuls.  Shovel, drink, shovel, drink.  “You can do it,” I think to myself as I swallow, fighting the urge to gag that threatens to upend my careful efforts.  I reach out my hand to steady myself on the porcelain sink, count to ten and down the stragglers with a satisfied gulp.  I glance about the spacious bathroom, taking in the porcelain bidet, the rich red and gold wallpaper, the silver spigot, and the blue eyes underscored by dark smudges staring dimly back at me from the gilt-edged mirror. I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead with a thick cotton towel, paste a brave smile onto my face and open the door.  “Who’s ready for the Eiffel Tower?” I ask as I cross the room to hug my son and daughter. 

It is a warm, sunny spring day in April 2011.  My two children and I are enjoying a long weekend in Paris while my wife sits in Moscow, recovering from the hell I put her through over the past year.  In Paris we stay at the Plaza Athénée, a luxurious but child-friendly hotel steps from the Seine and Champs Elysees.  Vanya, my vivacious eight-year-old daughter, is most impressed by the ornate floral arrangements in the lobby; Teo, 4 and going on 15, falls in love with the viscous, European-style hot chocolate.  

And much more to come.....