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.