OK, I spent way too much time driving this week and my mind wanders a bit. It was also a bit of a strange day. I got to thinking how differently famous authors, like Kurt Vonnegut, John Steinbeck, John Irving, & Tom Robbins, would slip my life, character, and day into one of their novels. They’d all describe the same thing but in their own style. Think about it with your own life with your own favorite authors. Or not.
I really do think the only author who could adequately tell my tale is Oscar Wilde. I mean, can you imagine a story (well…play…) like “The Importance of Being Earnest”, only about ME? He was even more ostentatious than I am, therefore he’s totally qualified to relay my life and times. It totally works! 
I guess probably Dav Pilkey who writes(draws?) Captain Underpants.
Actually, I’d like to say Roald Dahl, but I’d be one of the weird, peripheral, freaky characters most likely.
Or maybe Dave Barry would do a creditable job of making me the pov character.
John Le Carre to cover my very secretive nature, Brendan Behan to cover the love of a good time and Thomas Hardy because Gabriel Oak is a masterclass in the study of an extremely patient man who takes whatever is thrown at him and keeps on keeping on.
Great idea for a thread, btw.
Slan,
D. 
Bulwer-Lytton- “It was a dark and stormy night..”
Mark Twain- “The Story Of The Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come To Grief”
Someone must have informed on Stone, for he realized he was under constant surveillance.
He went to find the Police Commissioner. He told the receptionist:
‘What have I done? I want to know where I stand.’
The Commissioner isn’t in today, the receptionist said.
The best way to find him is by contacting his secretary.
You may find her at the Inn at Forest Park
where she sometimes
eats dinner–though not often. Possibly you may locate her lover,
who is often there. Perhaps he knows how to find her.
If you wish I can make an appointment for you, but the Commissioner
has no openings for several months. The office is about
to be relocated…
Call me Paul.
Nah-- it’d never sell
Ok, I can play that:
Dr. Seuss
Any one but Ernest Hemingway, his stories usually don’t end well.
Could someone please do a picture book of their life? That would rock!
My life would be a Little Golden Book.
Maybe.
In my case the honor (?) would likely fall to either Christopher Moore or Marc Laidlaw. It would come down to whether I decided the twists and turn of my life were comically bizarre (Moore) or just plain bizarre (Laidlaw). I do hold out some small hope that by the time I’m done I’ll have accomplished enough to be a minor character in a Turgenev novella.
“Upon my honour, do I have the pleasure address Mrs Johnathan Wainright”,
“Why, no, indeed it is to Mrs Peter Wainright to whom you address your comments,”
“Oh fie, then indeed, I have a wrong number,”
ten mins ago by Jane Austin.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man posessed of a fortune, must be in want of a penny-whistle.”
After a few hours thought, it occurs to me that the person to write my biography would have to be Rabelais.
Francois Villon, if Rabelais was otherwise engaged.
Or possibly…
Frank O’Connor.
Marcel Aymé.
Brendan Behan.
Pushkin.
Sei Shonagon.
William Gibson.
Haifiz.
Omar Kayyam.
"Awake! Electrons in their circuit creep
Like undemanding lines of plodding sheep
Night long they trudge, till the appointed hour
when gates are closed, and the alarm goes “Beep!”
Gray.
“The milkman lifts the crate of starting day,
departing, whistles tunes of fancy free;
I lift the milk from off the cooling step
And gently pour some in my morning tea.”
I would be enjoying this thread in an entirely different way if I would have known more of the authors of which you speak. On the other hand, this is probably why you folks are all the much more interesting.
“It was the best of whistles, it was the worst of whistles”-- from a Tale of Two Whistles
Beer is the mind-killer.
Beer is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my beer.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the beer has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.