It’s funny how memory is not the most important part of memoir. Of course, you have to have memories to write about; you can’t just make up the time you went to the Tajmahal when you never set foot in India. But the experience from memory is just the spark that starts the fire works. Its importance diminishes with every thought about it. It’s importance dissolves as fast as it appeared with every reaction to it, with every cultural and historical response to it, with every pair of bell bottom jeans and Rolling Stones songs playing in the background. Who cares about what happened to you? It’s what you do with it on the page. How you manipulate it to become something bigger, broader, deeper. Why would anyone want to know how much half and half you put into your Peet’s French Roast Coffee unless that cup of java becomes an entrance through a door that uncovers a story of soul inspiring dimensions, or is entertaining, or both.