I’d like to write a story about my life, but then I think to myself: what’s the point, if I’d never get to write the epilogue?
I think the book, if I did decide to write it without the proper conclusion, would have to be a collection of short stories. My life is never continually interesting, as I’m sure many people’s aren’t. I’d break it into 20 or so defining moments (or just some clumsy memories that are somewhat idyllic), and streeeeetch those stories out until they were each about 10 pages long.
Something like what I’m supposed to be doing with this final report I’m writing for my program coordinator, except that I’m much more fascinated by my life than by the topic of this paper.
Which reminds me: I’m blogging instead of completing that report again. Right. Okay, time to get on that. Love you bye.
