“I’ve led such an interesting life,” sighs my friend, admiringly. “I should tell my story.”

“Should you?” I smile.

My friend frowns. He was expecting encouragement.

Telling any story is hard; telling one’s own is treacherous.

Memoirs are easier: here are my recollections, true or not. Hagiographies and screeds follow well-worn paths. A biography aims to get it right. How did its subject get from A to B. What really happened? Destiny or accident? Victory or defeat?

Autobiographers must divide themselves in two – protagonist and chronicler – with conflicting goals. Protagonists want to shine, at least make their case. No one ever wrote a book to look bad. Those who depict themselves harshly seek credit for their courage.

Chroniclers seek to comprehend. They must assume that their subjects’ recollections are, at best, flawed, at worst, fiction. No action’s innocent. Whatever we do or say, we are “up to” something. We must be found out, disentangled from our self-serving myth. Autobiographers are operating on themselves. Imagine trying to remove your own appendix.

I think a lot about my past. It enthralls me how I got from A to B, A and B themselves being fantastic reconstructions. I compose scenes, altering details for dramatic effect, adjusting the lighting. No one’s story is interesting per se. No more can a potato be eaten raw. Would I prefer my past boiled, fried, mashed, baked with cheese?

Truth, sure and shapely as a cloud from afar, becomes a mess of molecules once penetrated. What was obvious becomes a fog.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about religion, as America tilts terrifyingly toward theocracy.

I was raised in a churchgoing, though not God-fearing, household. I liked church because of the music and no one bickering there. Neighbors were clean and pleasant in church; they did not smoke or drink or say stupid things. I liked the flowers on the altar and the candles and the different colors for different seasons and the minister’s stole. For a spell I wanted to be a minister. To console and harmonize one’s congregation – what happy work!

Church was good. I played the organ, memorized the prayers. I still consider The Book of Common Prayer the most melodious prose ever.

Then church became bad. My dad on his deathbed lost his faith – what kind of faith was that! Did he really lose his faith or was he just having a hard time wrestling his disappointment? (It is hard dying at forty-seven.)

Church became bad for another reason. It made churchgoers so sure of themselves, superior and smug. It’s hard not to get cocky if you’ve got God on your side. Our church was the rich, fashionable church in town. Its membership, the country club’s and the private day-school’s enrollment overlapped. My family supported all three. That made us better somehow.

To hell with the Church, said I, and got on with my life. Then, nearing the end of my arc, God paid me a call. It was a wonderful moment. So, in my autobiography, which will never be written, should religion be portrayed as good or bad, affirmative or destructive, blessing or curse? Well yes – both – neither – it depends. So with every large heading – Family, Marriage, Career, Money, Patriotism, etc. – good or bad, blessing or curse? The closer you look the more your shapely cloud dissolves into mist.

If my friend insisted on telling his story, I suggested, do it fast, scribble don’t dawdle, then see what you’ve got. Every time I try to tell my story, I confessed, after a few dozen pages, I discard it in disgust. It’s just too hard.