While I was making my bed this morning, I found myself thinking about the entire canon of literature.

Which is a normal, very casual thought to have before 8 a.m.

I wondered: If I could put my name on any book ever written, which one would I choose? Which work would I be proudest to claim as mine?

At first I reached for Anna Karenina. Hamlet. A Farewell to Arms. The kinds of books that make you sound impressive at dinner parties.

But if I’m honest, the books I’d most want credit for aren’t always the grandest. They’re the ones that made me think, “Me too!” The ones I ignored everything in existence so I could finish and then press into a friend’s hands.

Mid–pillow fluff, another thought came: my life isn’t over.

I am still writing.

For me, it’s a slow honing of sentences between school pickups, deadlines, laundry cycles, seasons of doubt. I may never produce a timeless classic, but I want to keep striving to produce things I’m proud to have my name attached to.

So now I’m curious.

If you could claim any book as your own—any book in history—what would it be?

And what are you still hoping to write?

Also, I usually never make my bed. But maybe I need to start the habit!