Stories

“I left my story in a barn so someone else could keep milking it. I left my story in the fitting room; it didn’t fit me anymore. I left my story at the hospital because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. I left my story at the rest stop; it needed a rest. I left my story at the body shop because it always wanted a different one. I left my story with some cash so it could never say, ‘Poor me.’ I left my story without saying where I was going because I didn’t want it to follow me; it never even noticed I was gone.” — Sy Safransky

I am trying to rewrite my story. Or, actually, that’s wrong. I’m simply trying to change the direction in which it is going. I don’t think I knew what it was about when I started it. How could I? How can anyone?

There are so many possibilities, endless possibilities.

At some point, I decided to make my life ABOUT something, but I couldn’t decide what that something would be. Later, I committed to a path. Then, another one. And a few more after that…

I thought I knew where it was all going.

I thought I knew where I wanted it to go.

I was wrong on both counts.

Now, as I embark upon a new chapter, I’ve thrown out all my outlines. This action could be proverbial suicide; every story needs structure, after all. But my instincts are screaming that I just need to sit with my character for a while, listen for her voice and trust that she will guide me into a more authentic second third seventh act.

I am terrified. I desperately want to jump to the last five pages for confirmation that this all has a happy ending.

But life doesn’t work that way.

At least I’ll never have to know whether I become a cosmic best seller or relegated to the discount bin.

How’s the manuscript of your life coming along?

Share the Pleasure!

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