It has come to my attention that my reading focus of late has been the memoir. Just this year alone, I have read four or five books by Jen Lancaster, two by Jennifer Lauck and another pair by Anne Lamott. (Apparently, I have a preference for memoirs written by women whose last name begins with “L.”) The memoir has become my preferred genre. In my younger days and into my thirties, I mostly devoured books of fiction. It was escapism in its purest form. In my mid-thirties, I switched to non-fiction, a move that thrilled my non-fiction-fanatic late husband. (I landed in the New Age/Spiritual section, and gobbled up countless books as I became awakened to my spirit. ) The memoir is appropriate for my grown-up taste in books that are true. As I continue to take teeny-tiny baby steps with my writing, the memoir, one written by and about me, seems like a possible long-term goal. Everyone has a story worth telling. The trick will be to find the time, words, confidence, patience, humor, humility and freedom to dare to write it all down.