Everyone he knew was pushing him, cheering him on enthusiastically to write an autobiography. Dave was modest about his life, about the possibility that he or his life might be special. He had impostor syndrome as much as any of us even though he lived large, authentically and more fully than most people while trapped in that shitty paralyzed body of his.
I call myself a reluctant biographer because he was supposed to write his story. He repeatedly tried to talk me into writing it and I strongly resisted doing so. I offered to take dictation and/or edit but it was his story to tell in his words. I am not one to give in easily once I have taken up position but I can’t argue with a dead guy. I am reluctant now because what if I get it wrong? What if I can’t remember everything that needs to be said? I haven’t even finished grieving all the way yet or fully accepted that he is not here to laugh with about all of these stories including his perfectly timed, untimely death.
This blog will share snippets of a view into the development of his epic failed autobiography. Failed because he died suddenly without notice, without really getting started. He dictated a few skeletal drafts of very random stories. Quitting was uncharacteristic of him so it’s not like he was procrastinating, he legitimately played the best excuse for not finishing something ever, because nothing is more epic than or beats death. He would have LOVED how perfect pulling the death card was for forcing me to finish what he started.
So far what I have experienced is that grief has infinite stages and layers as unexpected and inevitable as death itself. Seven years on, the irony is still hilarious as I laugh myself to tears talking to his friends, revisiting memories, trying to remember everything I can remember, basically grieving.