I’ve started to write my story several times. Encouraged by my closest sister who often said that I should write a book. These conversations usually occurred around some disaster that was blowing up my life. “Who would want to read about this,” I’d say.
I have experienced a lot of life’s challenges. Perhaps it would be cathartic to write it all down. I kept thinking I’d have to get to the happy ending of the story, where all the trials (one is a literal reference) culminated in a happily-ever-after, tied up with a pretty pink bow. I see now that it’s not going to work that way. I mean hell, I could be 80 years old and have forgotten the story by then.
It occurs to me that the fact that I’m still standing is perhaps what the story is about. And the good (?) news is that the majority of the people surrounding my story are either deceased or not speaking to me so no headache there.