Autobiography: (n) an account of a person’s life written by that person.
Every one of us exaggerates our toleration.
In an attempt to come off open-minded, generous or even willing, we put forth the idea that we are much more free in our thinking than we actually are.
This is true of autobiographies.
If I were to be honest, I would have to tell you that any sentence that begins with “I” which does not contain some shape or form of self-deprecation will be viewed by the listener or the reader as vain.
Even “I went to the store” reeks of self-involvement or threatens the inception of a boring tale.
I don’t know how the autobiography got started–because unless you’re confessing your sins, shortcomings or warning others of the dangers of poorly pursued habits, books that begin with “I” always end up feeling like a poke in the eye.
Matter of fact, I have begun to ration the number of times I allow myself to use the words “I” or “me.”
It’s not because I’m noble. It’s because there is no possibility that anyone else will find my “I” storyline nearly as fascinating as I conceived it.
But if you do not write your autobiography, you’re at the mercy of someone in the future who actually finds you interesting enough to pen a biography concerning your life and deeds.
That could be risky. After all, maybe after you’re dead, your rendition of life may not be nearly as interesting as you thought it was. And a neutral party may choose to be a bit more clinical than you.
But still, all in all, it’s much safer to stay away from “I” when it comes to reciting your deeds. Because even though we insist that confidence is a good thing, it really is more like the three wishes from the genie in the bottle:
Choose and use wisely.
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