I Did Not Consider That I Would Write A Story
As I sit at my desk, pondering my navel and other things, great and small, one thing that comes to mind is that in about two weeks, my book, my autobiography, will be released everywhere. However, it did not start that way. I did not intend, at first, to write a story and to have my memoir released for all the world to see, warts and all. Ten years ago, I started writing a journal about my feelings regarding my life as a whole and how my early years affected it, both for good and for bad. They say a child is entirely formed by the age of six.
However, by the age of six, I was a total wreck. I had manifested an early form of the anxiety I felt in the form of my first tick, eventually one that would give way to others, as the tick may have left me but my anxiety had not. I had a condition that is called Impetigo, and I just could not stop licking my lips, which soon became infected with bacteria. My mother was a clean freak, and changed and washed me on schedule, one that seemed obsessive, even to little me.
Impetigo is a common, contagious bacterial skin infection, often called “school sores,” that creates red sores, blisters, and honey-colored crusts, usually around the nose, mouth, hands, and feet, caused by Staphylococcus or Streptococcus bacteria entering breaks in the skin. It spreads easily through contact and typically appears in young children in warm weather, resolving with antibiotics but requiring isolation from school/daycare until 24 hours after starting treatment to prevent spread. (From the web.)
To Write A Story, Takes Discipline, More Than I Thought I Had
Write a story, you say? If those who stated that “children were totally formed by six years old” were to be believed, then I had a story to write just in my first six years. Over the years, while I did not attempt to write a story, the story grew, and every once in a while, over that period of years, while I was not trying in the least to write a story, my story, I still managed to pick up my “journal” and add a few more jottings to it.
As time passed, my “journal” grew larger and somewhere after the mid-point of what has now become my story, in the form of my autobiography, “Once A King, Now A Prince,” started to look like more than a Journal. I decided to do a better job of organizing it and putting it into a more readable format, based on my age at the time. In every section, I had covered a part of my life, as it happened at that given age.
With a bit of encouragement from some of my friends, I finally did convince myself that I should, in fact, write a story, the story of my life as a memoir, and I then set out on the journey to actually complete it. After only a short ten years, it became what is now my memoir, “Once A King, Now A Prince.”
Even With Encouragement, I Struggled To Write A Story
After all, I thought, who would want to read it? Also, was I prepared to march in the parade, totally naked, for all the world to see if I did write a story and made it available to the public? Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I made the transition from referring to it as a “self-help journal” to sitting my butt down, in a serious fashion, head down, and plowing ahead with the new intent to write a story about my life that might be worth reading by others.
Of course, the questions arose, such as: “Would others find it interesting if I were to write a story, my story, my life?” “Would they find benefit in how I lived my life?” “Would it be well received, or would I be laughed at for showing my life with all of its warts?” Somehow, with encouragement from others, I transitioned from writing a journal to writing a story for all to read.
Write A Story? That Wasn’t My Intention, But.. The Reading
