Friday, January 28, 2011
I’ve always thought of my life as a Story and yes, that is a capital S. And, this is not just any old short story anthology sold on the bargain shelf at Borders next to the generic Pasta cookbook. My imagination has, instead, placed each experience in its own chapter of what in the science fiction world can only be described as a space opera; a saga of such grand importance that it spans not only generations of time but also the vastness of space. Every conversation, business introduction, failed relationship, letter written, so essential to the whole of it, that even a passing glance with a stranger is given weight when retold. Of course I have considered myself to be the main character of said narrative and from a young age understood that my ability to perform flawlessly in the heroic role required of me was the only thing that kept the around me world from spinning off into oblivion.
Fast forward to present day and here I sit. I now am married to the perfect male character, so gentle and true yet beautiful and passionate that my readers can’t help but be enamored. The retelling of our serendipitous meeting and surprising courtship has their romantic hearts quivering with contentment. However, the Story has now taken a most unsatisfying turn. My body has once again been taken over by a myriad of physical issues and I await yet another doctor’s appointment. Because of the various symptoms, I’ve been stuck in the house for what seems like an eternity and yet in reality has only been a couple of months. This brilliant adventure has ground to a halt and I find I’m living a Story that even I wouldn’t want to read.
I find myself struck with the thought that not only is there the distinct possibility that I’m not the Heroine and I may not even be the Sidekick or wise Teacher. What if I’m only the Bag Lady that is vaguely mentioned in the second chapter as the main character heads off to another crucial encounter? This shock to my egocentric system has caused fear and anger. Where is this Author anyway? I ask. Even through the critical dramatic moments that have caused my character to grow I have trusted Him, recognizing that it was all for the good of the Story. Yet this plot gimmick makes no sense, the Story appears to be standing still. This isn’t one of those tales that skip over years with the change of a paragraph or turn of the page. And still there are no answers, only the clichéd endings that cannot satisfy such an elaborate epic even if I’m not central to the resolution.
For the moment I sit, trying to think of a way to tunnel through the paragraphs to the next “good part” and yet it doesn’t appear to be up to me. If it was in my hands, I would have moved on from this topic to fulfilling Dreams a couple pages if not a chapter ago. I can only come to the conclusion that the Author’s hands hold the pen and I am only the ink with which He writes.