“Everybody has a story!” he drawled. “You must.”
He sat across the diners cheap formica table, inquisitive blue eyes prying, mocking me.
I nodded my head in disagreement, “Nope, no stories. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
He harumphed and stared. His dimple dancing while he decided which one of his memories to flaunt next.
He continued on with all his crazy stories from his youth. He regaled me with the good old days, well…what he considered the case to be.
On and on, throughout dinner and dessert.
Throughout the night.
Stopping every so often to ask if I had thought of anything. If I wanted to share anything.
He would say again, “Everyone has a story.”
I would answer to the negative again. “Nope, no stories. The typical life, nothing fancy, nothing unusual.”
I would always add, “Nothing worth mentioning.”
He would laugh and his eyes would dance mischieviously.
Then, he would continue.
He always had a story. About everything.
I would listen and sometimes wonder why I didn’t have any stories to share.
I married him 2 years later.
His stories merged where I thought mine began.
Different tones to different views on similar stories.
I left him 5 years, almost to the day we married.
I think about his question still. I think about his shock at my lack of stories.
Yes, everyone has stories.
Sometimes though, the ones worth telling don’t get written until much, much later.
I have stories. I have many stories. All of them are mine, stored in my heart and my head.
They are my scars, badges, honorable mentions, my junk drawer.
And I will share them here. Because I had a realization the other day. It shook me, quite actually.
Blogging is the evolution of journaling. We all know that.
I was never a good journal maker, many got lost under my bed, in drawers and in my closet.
But I had my ah-ha moment.
This is my journal. To chronicle my life, the good and bad and everything in between.
It’s not about numbers, it’s not about followers or fans or PR people sending me emails. It’s not about the lists or the cliques.
It’s about me.
I think it’s time I start telling them. It’s time to write them without fear of anyone finding my notebook and using my words against me.
Go ahead, do it.
It’s my life, I own it. Mistakes and all.
Because yes dear, I do have stories.
I’ve always had them, I just never paid attention.
All are worth mentioning.
They all have defined and molded who I am today.
Some of them, though? They are still being written.
Yes, I have stories. Lots of them.
How about you, do you have a story?