Life's Characters

I’ve finished reading a book on, well basically, life. Life, I realize, is not a basic term. It’s broad and eclectic and when I think of life I see myself in a million different literal and figurative places. Life, as you see it, is however you interpret it. So, the book was about story, and your life story, and creating a better one. A more meaningful one- whatever that means to you. This is a nice idea, isn’t it? You cannot be wrong, so long as you are living. You don’t know what the next page might say, but you can lead your story to read however you might want, perhaps to a better one.

What do you want out of it- the story, your life?

What’s your conflict and how do you end up after facing it? Wait. Do you face it?

Do you choose to change when you’re faced with a decision?

Who is in your story?

I’ve been thinking. (Because, when do I not?) And I’ve written goals and ways I can write a better story, live a better plot. I’ve been thinking about change and I could list a million ways I’ve pondered past and future change. This last one has stuck with me, about people being in your story.

We need people. Stories are better with other people. It’s better to share a story with someone. They can fill in the gaps of your memory. This idea, it’s an overwhelming feeling I have to explore.

I have a tendency to romanticize things. Idealize them. Dream about simple scenarios as if they were magic. I think about how I would feel and what it all means, and how others must feel the energy too. In reality, I realize I’m probably alone in this dreamscape. So this is where I get to the part about characters in my story.

When I lived in Greenville, I went knowing one person, the reason I had moved there in the first place. I thought he was interesting. Just in the same way, as if a person flipped through a 300-page novel in 5 seconds, saw a catchy one-liner on the cover from the author himself, a few pictures on the inside, and said, yup, this is my favorite book. That was my co-main character in Greenville.

So when I would drive in my shitty 2001 car to work as a waitress, I still romanticized my life. I made the best of it, fueled by novelty of place and a book in which I found captivating, but was missing the last 170 pages. I drove past mountains and literally said (nearly every single time), “Oh. My. Gosh.” Because I couldn’t hold the beauty and fortune within me.

I hiked by myself, visiting state and national parks, losing my keys, getting doused with rain at the peak, camping in my car in a vacant mountain lot. Happy through these exciting pages. I sentimentalized the glassy, gentle rain, cool on my shoulders. I became exhilarated after hiking all day, seeing things I’d never seen before, passing strangers with the same gritty smile. I had stories of nature and inspiration and what fueled me. Dreams of what I wanted to do next and become eventually, and what I needed to do to get there.

Except, I was living my story alone. Anything I shared with my story mate was simplified into naught. Stories told with passion and excitement were dismissed by distractions and “more important” things. I was alone in my story, feeling my own enchantment diminish, not wanting to do anything at all. I let this person shrink my story. And I said, for so long, “It’s really okay. It doesn’t matter.”

Eventually, that chapter ended, and I ached for a while. Because I was comfortable writing the same page of the story, day after day. And even though I was ready for a new one, a newer story and bigger adventure, I couldn’t have it. I was forced to make my words smaller so I could stay on his easy page.

Later, I met my now-fiance, whom, I must admit, I doubted fully. I didn’t want to invite anyone in my story. I was ready to protect it, and I couldn’t believe I needed anyone to help me write my story. I didn’t think I needed to share and spoil my treasures. Until he knocked down my wall and said, “I need you in my story. I want you to enhance mine with your magic.” Little by little, just like stories are told, he wanted to dive into to the flames in my eyes, talking about heart. He wanted to know the beginning so he could take my hand and write the rest together. How can I say no to a character who shows up on every page and writes love into each word?

Am I romanticizing again? Probably.

And this is my point about sharing story. Yes, invite people in, let them be a part of your story. If they say no, ask someone who will say yes. If they say no, don’t let them alter your story. It’s not for them.

Rely on people, you will find that you need them to get by. Listen to them, talk to them too.

The characters in your story, no matter how small or lovely, should matter to you. They shouldn’t enter, only to fix your story, or step with muddy shoes, clouding up your dreams. Invite learning and love. Give it back to them.

I have this really strong feeling of doing great things. I can’t put my finger on what will happen, or when, or even why. I don’t know if it will be meager or mighty. But I want to allow everyone to be a part of it, and I will need it. I cannot wait to get started on my story.

#life #love #writing