Sometimes having a background in psychology is a mixed blessing. When I start analyzing my own writing, it occurs to me that I might be taking it a step (or two) too far. Have you ever heard the expression that goes something like “if you don’t like where you are, then move”? I’ve realized that certain characters in my books are what I wish I were.
Those characters are me without fear. Me without illness. Me without the feeling that I miss so many opportunities just because of where I am and what I am doing. Even without magic or supernatural powers, they are me without being the real me. They are the ones in the right place at the right time for opportunity and adventure. They are my escape. They are me “moving” from where I am for just a little while. For brief timespans, I can lift out of me and go somewhere that I do not have to fight with who I am.
Some of them even look like me, or at least the me from a few years ago when I was in shape. They are not overweight but typically sport an athletic frame. They are mostly my height or thereabouts. They typically have my eye and hair color, although none are covering up gray. One in particular does not get sick. I can’t even describe how I should be jealous of my own characters. They look like I would if I could choose how I looked or be whatever I wanted to be.
I’ve done all the dialogue out loud for all of my stories. I’ll go through any given “scene” probably a dozen times before it goes down on paper (if not more). Some are based on real life conversations and what I should’ve/would’ve/could’ve said… you know, if I were brave. It’s those great lines that I wish I had thought of at the time but inspiration came too little too late. They also haven’t sold their souls. Even at their lowest, my characters don’t give up who they are for the sake of a losing battle. They are strong and brave and are always ready for whatever comes next. They are the ones who always know what to say because I’ve had ages to find the right words for them.
Let me make this clear: I love my life. I know I’m not perfect and won’t ever be, but the drive to become better is always there. I know that I am not going to wake up one day and have some kind of special powers or whatever. It’s surprise enough some mornings that I wake up at all. No, what I want isn’t to be someone else; to be somewhere else; or to exist in some other way. I wish I could be me without the hindrance of the negative aspects of being me.
I envy my characters because though they have jobs, they are not consumed by them. They might get sick, but it doesn’t disable them for a season at a time. The ones with kids get to raise them instead of working 12 hour days. Yes, they have conflict; yes, they have problems; it wouldn’t be a good story if these things weren’t there. The difference is that they get to have some resolution to those things. Real life never pauses or ties up at the end of the story. If they want something, they go get it. I can write the means for them to get whatever it is or not if that is the story line. If I want something, no one writes it in for me. I don’t wish upon a star and have it happen.
So, I walk into a bookstore and the storekeeper tells me that he can put me into a story. He has the ability to place my consciousness into a book and let me live it as if I were the main character. The catch is that none of the stories are ones that I know. They are all written by authors I’ve never heard of and I do not know the plots of any of them. Say I suspend my disbelief long enough to try it. He warns me that if something bad happens, I will experience it right next to the good stuff that happens. I have to be willing to take it all together.
Sure. Okay. Bring it. He does his thing and places me into a story. I come to realize that the most amazing thing about reading a book for the first time is that I share something with the characters. It is something that no matter how many times I read that book again, I will never experience the same thing. Good or bad, neither they nor I know what is going to happen next. It’s not always a happy ending, and if it’s a cliffhanger, there’s no real ending anyway; just a breath between books. Who lives and who dies? Who wins and who loses? Who comes out on top but does so at a terrible price? I am experiencing the story without knowing what happens next. I share that once… and once only.
Such is life. Yes, life would be simpler without illness. It would be more balanced if I were working more normal hours. I don’t know what will happen next and that’s a good thing. There are things that are beyond my control and other things that I can influence. It’s not wishing upon a star, it’s putting one foot in front of the other every day and hoping that by the time my final page is penned, by the time my story is ending and the sun is dropping below the painted horizon on my last day here, mine will be a story that means something. Complete with the conflict, with the illness, but also with the love… truly a story worth the telling.