Daily Post prompt: Write page three of your autobiography.
No fair! I’ve already written my autobiography. It goes from birth until about ten years ago when exciting things mainly stopped happening, It’s the only book I’ve ever actually finished.
I was compulsively driven to write it. I could not stop. I would go to work, come home, write until bed time, sometimes later, and then get up and do it all over again. On the weekends, I wrote for eight or nine hours straight. It took over a month of writing every day. The NaNoWriMo people would have been proud.
When I finished it, I backed it up a thousand times in a thousand locations. I have copies of it stowed away everywhere like a squirrel. I never looked at it again. I never even read it. I have no idea what’s in there.
Today is the first time I’ve opened it. Today is the first time I’ve read even a little. It’s raw. It’s full of grammar errors and stupidly written sentences, but it’s true. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever written. It’s the truest thing I’m ever likely to write. It is me.
It has chapters:
When I wrote the last word on the last page, my first thought was, “Now I can die.” It’s not that I wanted to die. It’s just that I felt like it would be alright if I did. I wouldn’t regret a thing. I had finally finished something and there would be a part of me left when I’m gone. I had written the thing that I’d been working on my whole life.
I’ve been writing my autobiography for as long as I can remember. It starts in a bunch of old school journals when I was fifteen in awful, illegible cursive handwriting before I decided to print words instead. It’s strange to have a window to the past like that. To open a book and connect with your fifteen year old self is difficult to say the least. When I was fifteen, a lot of terrible things hadn’t happened yet. In only three years time, my life would drastically change forever. Sometimes, I want to go back and warn that fifteen year old not to do the things she’s going to do, but it wouldn’t do any good. I know how stubborn she is. I wrote a blog post about it.
Now, I have a different window to the past. I have a view that I wrote as an adult with all my ducks in a row. Until today, I hadn’t bothered to look through it.
So, without further ado, here is page three of my AutoBio:
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have some editing to do.