Writing, or lack of it

Maggie wants me to write about my life. To put all the anecdotes I told countless times in a book. I nod, agreeing, and stall until we both forget. Then, in a new cycle, we start again: I'd remember a bit from the past, she'd say "you should write it down" and I'd agree.

I don't know what stops me, which silent force keeps the pen in the air and far from the paper? Maybe it's fear. Maybe I'm afraid to tell the truth. Maybe I'm afraid to remember it. So, I blog, fooling myself that I write. But blog is about the present. Writing is - or would be - about the ghosts of the past. The only kind of ghosts that frighten me.