The nice thing about stories is they have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

The trouble with life is that while there is clearly a beginning and an end, a certain amount of framing is required for the middle to make sense.

We frame it chronologically (“My Teenage Years”) or by experiences (“That Terrible Haircut”) but the goal is always the same — to draw meaning from the mundane; truth from facts.

I asked my husband, Michael, if it was presumptuous of me to write my memoirs—“What’s the opposite of ‘posthumously’? …pre-thumously?”

“Alive,” he responded.

“Right… So, can I write my memoirs while I’m still alive?”

“I’ve never known them to be written any other way.”

…I married him for his impeccably good sense.

All through life we pass through intersections of Fate. Sometimes we see the options clearly laid  before us; we make a list of pros and cons and stride forward, cognizant and confidant. At other times, it takes years of lying on expensive psychologist’s couches (that is to say, the psychologists, not the couches, were expensive) to untangle where the chaos all started.

Today I feel a definite shift in the road… I cannot see where it will lead, but it feels worthy of Journalling.

But of course, everyone has a journal. Only people of superior vocabularies write Memoirs.

And so, presumptuously and pre-thumously, we go…


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