Finally have a new story bubbling up. It feels different from other stories. Haven’t written much of it but am piecing it together in my head, kind of like rolling around a sip of wine in your mouth before swallowing.
People tell me I’ve lived an interesting life and that I should write about it. It has been interesting if not always enjoyable. But the thought of writing non-fiction, a memoir, while appealing to my ego, certainly scares the be-hebies out of me. I’d like to just skip over the devastating and humiliating parts of my life but, but of course that’s what people want to read, and honestly, if I cut out all of those, I wouldn’t have much left to write!
So I’ll stick to fiction as a way to let a little bit of my life out at a time, like releasing a bit of air from a balloon now and then, rather than letting go and seeing it flail out of control across the room.
Maybe when I’m 65 the idea of my life streaking across the sky for all to see won’t scare me so much.