An older man came to me and said, “I want you to write my story for my family.”
I said, “Wait until I’m done.” My story won’t be done though until I’m dead, and the ending will be written by someone else.
That was my dream a couple of nights ago.
I’m telling my story, self-published in blog style, possibly a need for self-actualization. My story telling started closer to the end than the beginning backtracking to pull it together. A life. It has all the elements of a good story: love, hate, lies, shame, anger, betrayal, adversity, happiness, unhappiness, fulfillment. It’s just an ordinary story. The story is told from my perspective with my emotions and feelings and beliefs and memories. I am the main character, the only one who can really write this account. There are other characters, some pillars–stalwart and strong while others crumble under the weight. There are the temporary posts that are replaced by others.
Tell your story. You don’t have to write a blog. You don’t have to tell it to strangers. But someday someone like me will ask, “What was my mother’s greatest joy?” What was my mother-in-law’s greatest pain? What was my aunt’s greatest disappointment? What were my father’s memories of fighting in WWII? What did my father-in-law wish he had done that he never did? Did they have true love? Were their lives happy or did they feel as if they had settled? Someone will want to know after you’re gone and regret they never asked. Speak, write or record your story. Leave it behind. If you really have nothing to tell, then just say, “I was born; I lived; I’ll die. And that was all there was.