There comes a day, a day when we wake up to find ourselves trudging along in the exact spot we always planned to be, but now, find lacking. We can’t understand the words to any of the songs and we sometimes turn off the radio because it causes background noise. We watch everyone dancing and we remember agreeing to this deal, but, yah, we forgot to read the fine print.
And then we choose.
We choose to write our own story, again. Yes, we’ve been writing one all these years, a chapter a day. Sometimes, a chapter a year.
The first drafts are rife with missteps and character flaws. The hero is not cleverly disguised, typically hasn’t saved anyone and at first, is selfish and at last, is still selfish. In other words: Egotistical humanoid.
In the second draft, the hero is complacent, unaware of potential, coasting, taking the easy way. The perks are good. The views acceptable. The room service is timely and the opportunity for advancement is shrouded by moral standards and chest thumping ownership of valuable bennies. The theme of the week is driving hard and fast, but for short distances and only while wearing clothing and in the glow of the television. In other words: Narcolepsy invasion.
One day, we let someone read our story and they pat us on the head and admire us but also ask if we are where we thought we’d be at this time in our life plan? And then another one mentions a walk on the Appalachian Trail and how idiotic it is when the lead character prepares little for bad weather and safety, but packs a lot of condoms. And in the middle of a long January winter, we realize we have been smothered by our own comfort. In other words: Painfully aware.
We either go back to sleep or we stretch, breathe, maybe begin to sway, a soothing rock from stable hips.
And then we write.