Autobiographical Novels & Stories

she says. She says it quietly, almost thoughtfully, as if she's still turning it over in her mind. The line was the first thing I wrote when I started the memoir—the sentence that arrived fully formed, that told me what this document was going to be about. Not the operation. Not the investigation. The architecture of self-deception. The way we tell ourselves stories that become true enough to act on. "Then it becomes something else," she says. "The second paragraph. It becomes something about your mother." She pauses. "It becomes—" She stops. She looks at her hands. "It's very honest."

“I'm Moniquinha, an ordinary girl. Even if you don't relate, it's okay. You may be an exception, a bright person, a special girl. And that's the amazing thing about it all: being different. Because, like I said, I'm pretty ordinary. And from the height of my normality, this book of randomness was born. Small texts, from short stories to chronicles, with experiences and bitterness; reflections and hope. This first chronicle, for example, I wrote on the bus, the day Lelete told me about her resignation from her second job. She called, crying, that she couldn't take it anymore, that the world was boring. And the worst, I agreed with her and put it on paper.

Sophia's POV My mother read the last page first. I'd told this story many times now. In the autobiography. At the grave. On the porch in August with the family gathered and the August light doing what August light did. To Catherine in the sitting room with the rabbit and the fire. I'd told it so many times it had become the story rather than the memory. The version that had been handled enough to be smooth. The edges worn down by use. But on a Tuesday morning in December, sitting at my desk with the fourth edition of the autobiography in my hands, I turned to the last page.

But Aurora imagined what Sera would say: Stop whining and find new work that fits who you are now instead of who you were. Fair point, even if imaginary. Aurora started writing seriously. Not academic papers or policy briefsmemoir. Documenting integration's first fifty years from inside. Personal perspective on systemic change. Honest account of victories and failures, progress and setbacks, hopes and disappointments. "You're writing history," Marcus observed, reading draft chapters. "I'm writing memory. Different thing. History is objective record. Memory is subjective experience. Integration needs both." The writing consumed her. Sixteen-hour days at computer, excavating memories she'd sup

Dear Diary, I’ve decided to keep a book recording all my days here at High Hill, should make pleasant reading in the future! Well, let’s start with the basics. I’m Gabriel; surname’s irrelevant as I’d rather not link myself to my parents. I’m 15; average height, wavy mousey brown hair, hazel brown eyes, and I’ve just arrived on my first day here. My parents sent me here because apparently public school isn’t good enough for me. But the reason they don’t know is that my parents would rather not have a son like me around them, snobbish twats. I’m just not good enough for them because I’m gay... Oh yes, did I not mention, I’m gay...and single... and full of a house with lots of boys in it. Oh b

PHOEBE I spent the entire night tossing and turning, my mind trapped in a chaotic, unending loop of ocean-blue eyes and haunted confessions. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. The man literally couldn’t forget a single bad day if he tried. Every slight, every grief, every scratch on a wall or tone of voice was locked away in his brain in permanent, unyielding high-definition. It was mind-blowing, it’s exciting yet I could guess how exhausting it might also be. I couldn’t even remember what I’d eaten for breakfast last Thursday, and my entire childhood before the age of ten was just a blank, velvety void of nothingness—a biological mercy file my brain had

The cursor blinked rhythmically against the white screen. Suddenly, the cold armor of the legal terminology fractured. A sudden, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest as the truth caught up with me. My fingers hovered over the plastic keys, trembling slightly. I wasn’t just writing an academic paper. I was writing a autopsy report of my own life. I was writing about myself. I was writing about Shawn.

" I took a deep breath and heaved a sigh. He was looking at me with some kind of resolution in his eyes; like he was hell bent on convincing me yet pissed off at the same time that I was not buying it. He clenched and unclenched his jaws and did the same for this fists to as he groped the steering wheel in one hand. "You don't have to give your self that kind of stupid storyline. You can simply write your autobiography. How about your legs? Huh? Write about them. Can't you? I've known you for a while now and I know you are not shy or insecure about sharing your story because you have bene doing just that on your Instagram posts for a while. You can simply just write about your legs and inspi

In those days of quiet moments, I could hear sounds that I can't interpret. The worry of how my stay will linger was my real concern, the person I thought i was, wanted to break free. "What am I? Where am I? Where did I come from? How was I formed? These are the few of the countless questions that were weaved within the fabrics of my mind. Somehow I started noticing that some of the occurrences I felt happened by routine: the descending liquids and solid substances; the vibration that surged in descending order toward the location where I was enclosed; the frequent movement of the vessel carrying me.