My parents never wrote their life stories.   I wish they had, I feel like there was so much I didn’t know and never will.

But I’ve never written mine.   Will anyone care when I’m gone?    It’s a strange thought, being gone – so I’ve decided that instead of being worried and frightened by it, I’m making my list of the people I’m going to haunt.   It’s not really long right now, but I just started thinking about it.  I’m sure it will grow with time.

I’ve thought about writing my story – but would anyone really want to read it?   I can’t imagine they would.   There’s been way too much drama in my life, but I doubt it’s of interest to anyone but those who participated.   Their stories are likely far different from mine.

I think about writing more than I do it.   I think it would be nice to sit down and write and write and have something wonderful to show for it.   I think it would be nice to have done that, but I don’t have the dedication and discipline to do it.

I think I just get overwhelmed with the number of things I could write about.  Max.  My husband.  My friends and the silly things we do.  The witchy things we do.   I just don’t know where to start – or where to stop.