not-so storytime

my dad’s been telling me that i need to write a book about my life. my story. pushing me to, really.

i feel like i need to insert a disclaimer already: my life is not that compelling, at least not to me. to me, it’s just my life. something i’ve been living. that’s all. yes, i’ve gone through things, good and bad, but so has everyone else, so why would anyone honestly give a shit about the story of my life, right?

i have yet to figure out a decent answer to that question. writing a book about myself seems so self-centered. self-serving. (yes, i know how ironic it is for me to think that while i am literally writing about myself…writing about myself, but alas.) but after hearing my dad say yet again “i know you’re not going to, i know, but you should write a book. people would pay to read it,” i opened a new word document and titled it the book i’ll never publish. not because i wanted to produce something that people would pay to read (which would never happen if i never publish it anyway) but because i give a shit about the story of my life. or at least i want to.

i created that word document on june 2014—almost two years ago. you want to know how much of this “book” i’ve completed since then? 214 words. this is a book about my life and all i’ve had to say about it so far can be counted in 214 words.

obviously my life is more significant than 214 words. but i cannot even write anymore because i keep asking myself where i should even begin.