“It’s a funny feeling,” I confessed to an editor-friend as we worked on my first memoir, a book on calling. “In a few months perfect strangers will be able to read some of the most intimate stories from my childhood that even my closest friends don’t know.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowed.
“And the conclusion I’ve come to is that strangers can know these stories about me and still not know me. They’ll still be strangers.”