547 Pages About Me.

Did I ever tell you that I started a book over the summer?

I started one.

As in, I was in the process of writing one. And of course, it was about me. That's the only thing I know how to write about: me.
Me and my experiences.
Let's say the book was going to be an unconventional size of 6x11, then I wrote maybe ten pages front and back. But I deleted the whole thing because it was too personal. It would have been one of those books that were written while the story wasn't quite finished yet, and so it would take years to finish writing. And it's also one of those things that wouldn't be published until after I die-- or even better-- if, for some reason, I become ridiculously rich and famous. Then it wouldn't matter if the real-life characters in my book get offended, flattered, or screwed over.

But I'm definitely going to write a book before I die; it's one of the sure things on my life to-do list.

This past December, I flew to go home on my birthday but was surprised with a delayed flight and an extended three hours at JFK. Since I had a lot of downtime and wasn't in the mood to read the book that I had brought with me, I looked through the best sellers in one JFK's novelty stores. I realized that I didn't have a pen or paper with me so I noticed (just today, about 1.5 months after writing it) that I put whatever I was thinking at that moment into my phone, in fear that I would forget what I wanted to write.
It reads, "December 16 10:38 AM. How famous do you have to be for someone to be willing to read a 547 page book about yourself?"

I can't remember anymore whose autobiography it was, but it was definitely someone I didn't know right at the top of my head. Then again, I'm told I live under a rock when it comes to pop culture (but I can assure you it wasn't Ricky Martin. I actually think his book would be quite musing, only because I saw his interview on Larry King while at the gym a few months ago about him coming out). Either way, it made me doubt writing a book because of people like me ("who would read 547 pages about someone I don't know?"), but also encourage me to do it (since this 547 pager was published and then shelved on best sellers. But don't hold me accountable-- it might have been a best seller in that particular bookstore).

I will tell you that I'm not that prosaic and will not write an autobiography, but some aspect of my life that I think has some potential to be read by you with interest, and hopefully, relevance, inspiration, or emotion.