What if I told you I want to write a book. That I was finally ready to share my story as only I know it. Maybe you think I’ve done that already, but I’ve kept a lot of the intimate details to myself. All of the memories that shaped my life from what it was before to what it is now, keep pulling at me—telling me to sort through them, string them together and create something that resembles a coherent retelling. And I want to answer that call. I want to write a book. In fact, I started writing it months ago hoping that one day I could add it to my bookshelf next to my constantly growing collection of memoirs.