On memories and doors

Last Friday, I printed my almost finished story and put it on the table for my parents to read. It caused my dad to stay up later than he'd planned to, which I'm taking as a good sign. The next morning at breakfast he told me that the story reminded him of something I used to say as a kid. Whenever I was unsuccessfully trying to remember something, I'd say that it was somewhere behind a little door in my head, but I couldn't find the right door.

Now I'm not going to tell you what exactly the similarity to my story is; for that you'll have to buy the book when it comes out. But it's definitely there, which is funny because I'd forgotten about that particular anecdote. Who knows? Maybe I did unconsciously base the story on that idea.

Memories are strange things. For example: the only thing I remember about the house I lived in for the first two and a half years of my life is one door. I believe it was the door to the kitchen, but I'm not sure. It was green, with a small, frosted glass window with some sort of pattern in it. However, when I think about it, I don't actually remember that door anymore. I remember remembering it, and describing the image to my parents to check if there was indeed a door like that, which seems to have replaced my memory of the actual door itself.

I'm not sure why the first two memory-related anecdotes I thought of are both related to doors. It must mean something.

Anyway, hi! I'm Anna, I've been making up stories all my life, and writing them down ever since I figured out how letters worked. I've always wanted to write a novel, and I'm actually working on the first one that, even after a few chapters, still seems like it's going to be great. It's going to take a while to finish, though, so I decided to get back into short stories and see if I could get one published. And here I am, really excited to be working on this anthology!