Again/starting over

“A writer just summarizes their life events.” I heard that on a movie once.

I’d always written non-fiction because I thought my imagination was more interesting than my day to day. Now that I think about it my life has interesting, not to me of course, but that’s  because I’m the one experiencing it. So I’m gonna try this again, I’m going to write another book, but this time, the main character is me. This book will be about my life, my experiences, and my perception of the world around me.


I still remember what I was wearing the day before, green corduroy pants and a pink shirt. I remember I peed my pants that night and in the morning after I changed into the spare pair I had in my backpack, my mom threw the pants behind the bus stop. I remember coming back to that bus stop later that day and remembering I left a quater in the front pocket. I remember reaching for the pants and dropping them as a spider crawled out through that same pocket. I remember being upset the rest of the day because I really wanted that quater. Looking back I find it interesting that I was more upset about leaving a quater in the pissy pants behind the bus stop, rather than the fact that, that was the morning after the first night that I slept on the streets.

(End of excerpt)

I’m slightly OCD, typically when I write I already know the ending and I’m just working my way backwards. But this is the game of life and no one really knows how that ends until it’s ended. I don’t know how I’m going to do this but it’s going to require digging in places I buried for a reason and opening doors I pretend not to see. Writing this book is going to break me and hopefully finishing it will rebuild me. That excerpt is just a memory,  one of many. Just testing the waters, seeing how I feel with just that slight prick. Glancing around watching the reaction of others,  because as much as I want this to be about me, it’s about you. It’s about writing something that someone else would want to read.


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