I just returned to Florida after four days in Connecticut visiting my two sons. My six grandmonsters all still call me Popop, even the three who are teenagers now. Those three belong to my son Larry and his wife, Megan. Their two boys go to Villanova, and their daughter is looking at various colleges.

My grandson Ethan picked me up at the airport. (I didn’t even know he drove!) I told the pilot of my JetBlue flight that I was about to undergo the most hazardous part of my journey. He laughed and said, “Good luck.” I suspect he’s flown grandparents before.

After two days at Larry’s house — fish and visitors go bad after that — I headed for my younger son, Christopher, and his wife, Allison, who live 12 minutes away. Their three kids — much younger than the others — wore me out. I did manage to wax the oldest, Baxter, in a chess match. That would be impressive but for the fact that he’s 6 and had never played the game before. (At 80, I take wins wherever I can.) But I did feel bad, so I sent him a talking (and teaching) electronic chess set. Undoubtedly, he’ll wax me when he’s 7. And if he teaches his two little sisters the game, they’ll also eventually destroy me.

During my visit, Chris and I talked writing. (See? This is a literary column after all.) He’s written a TV pilot in his spare time; his day job is writing copy for medical companies. The premise is so brilliant that I can’t repeat it because I’m afraid somebody will steal it. I know I sound like a proud parent, but all I can say is I wish I’d thought of it first.

My contribution to the literary conversations involved my memoir. Now, I realize that everyone on Earth believes their life is unique. And, of course, they’re correct. No matter how short or long a life is, it’s unique.

I didn’t escape from a Boer prison camp, fight dervishes in the desert, have a Gallipoli-like catastrophe on my résumé, write a biography of Marlborough, or save Western civilization — all of which Winston Churchill did do. But I haven’t led a totally “uneventful” life, a word he used when speaking before Congress during a wartime visit.

Well, I’m no Churchill, but I was a U.S. Marine, despite being crippled as a child; a senior editor/reporter at newspapers large and small, including the New York Times; head of the Forbes newsletter division; president of a chamber of commerce for seven years, etc., etc. (I’m beginning to think I can’t hold a job…)

Anyway, I’ve started my memoir and have perhaps 10,000 words down. I even called my former agent in Manhattan, who suggested I split the narrative in two: One book about my personal life and another about my professional life. I’m still mulling that over. She also thinks I should self-publish because men’s memoirs don’t sell, and traditional publishers won’t touch them. (There must be a class-action suit in there somewhere.)

Oh, well. I was cable-surfing recently and saw an old interview with one of my idols, Stephen King. He said that he wrote six pages a day and turned out three books a year. I don’t know if he still does that, but it motivated me. Maybe I do have two memoirs in me.

But I’ll have to develop discipline, which I seem to be lacking. I mean, Amazon boxes show up on my doorstep all the time, and I don’t remember ordering stuff. Until I open them and say, “Oh, yeah.”

Since 2005, Lawrence De Maria has written more than 30 thrillers and mysteries on Amazon. And, no, he will not steal his son Christopher’s idea. Although he is sorely tempted.