I have a good friend who keep encouraging me to write my story, my autobiography. (He’s the one who needs to write an autobiography as he had a fascinating childhood.) But I've decided to not write mine. Even if I did an outstanding job, crossed all my t’s and dotted all the i’s, wrote in a fascinating literary style, broke new ground, it wouldn't sell. I’d never be invited to appear on talk shows, never be interviewed for the local newspaper, never be reviewed by Kirkus.
You see I had a happy childhood. Lived at a beautiful lake with acres of woods to play in. Had a loving gentle family. Liked school. Made good grades. Had friends. Married the man I loved, who loved me. Had darling children who grew up to be wonderful adults. No skeletons in my closet. Damn!