When I was seven, I started writing my autobiography. I titled it: “My Life So Far.” If it’s good enough for Jane Fonda, it’s good enough for me (although actually, I wrote My Life So Far far before Jane Fonda’s autobiography came out). Anyways, I wrote this “autobiography” in a green flowered notebook that I got from a dollar store. It started out with my birth, and “the long drive back from the hospital on a pretty spring morning.” I was born in December.

I was a good-tempered child, I wrote. I had consulted my mother on this. I wrote about my adventures in teething, learning to walk, and eventually learning to speak. Then, I wrote about learning to write at the tender age of two years old.

So basically, what I’m saying is that when I was seven I wrote a completely fictional autobiography. I think that for me, fiction has always been more fun than fact. But now, I’m eighteen, and I’m in school for journalism. Because even though it can be more fun to make things up, and indeed, fictional stories can be incredibly important, I’ve decided that people should know the truth about what’s going on around them, and I can be the one to do that.

But generally, this isn’t going to be a place for journalistic works. I have another, school-sanctioned blog for that. No, this is a place for me to write a number of different things. Some fictional, some not-so-fictional.

Enjoy. And, well, if you don’t enjoy, don’t tell me. Unless you have something constructive to say, which I will gladly take into account in future writings.


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