Sometimes she wanted to write an autobiography. She had always tried to start one, but never got very far, for various reasons. Of course, like many girls, she had kept several diaries, but none that kept a detailed track of a time in her life. She wanted something with depth…but she just never got around to it. She wondered what it would be like to get into the habit of writing bits and pieces, chapter by chapter of her autobiography. Or maybe what she wanted was not necessarily an autobiography, but something even more personal than that. Memoir sounded like a better word to her. It just had that kind of extra soft, and nostalgic ring to it.

But if she were to write a memoir, what would it say? She would probably change the name of some places, some people…but would it be more like a story then? That was fine too. What events would she include? More importantly…what would she leave out? Nothing. Hopefully.

And what would be the significance to writing her memoir? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was so she could leave her tiny mark in history. Maybe someone would pick it up and read it after she died, and it would become a famous book. Maybe it would mean she was worth something after all. Even if she would be dead. Doubt that would ever happen anyways, she thought sarcastically. She let out a soft, hollow laugh. My life story on paper…now That’s a waste of people’s time, she sighed before flipping her light switch. TGIF.