Jul 03, 2007 12:36
I just finished my first attempt at some kind of memoir. It was for a Creative Writing class, and as much as I like to wax eloquently about myself, it was not an easy task.
It seems that I have very few memories that I can look back upon with fondness. What few memories I have that don't segue into a less positive recollection, end up being just snapshots of moments. It was really hard for me to find something that didn't end with tears or heartache
But I managed to do it. I sat down and quickly punched out several pages of "a story of me". And reading back over what I wrote, I have to admit, I kind of like it.
And that's when I realized something: I could write a memoir about my existence, a story about the girl in my skin and how she came to be who she is, and then there would be lasting proof that I was actually here.
I'm getting to the stage in my life where I feel I'm running out of time to make a difference. I fear that there will be no children to pass my stories on to, that when I write my memoirs I will have to leave them to my nephew (and hopefully eventually a niece). My scrapbooks and my stories will be the only thing to show that there was once a girl on this planet named Deema. The lessons I learn will be wasted without someone to learn from them, so if I put them in a book, perhaps there will come a time when some distant relative can gain wisdom from my experiences.
At least then I would feel like I was leaving some kind of a mark....