In this life, there are tragedies that pale shame.
That sentence is exactly why I’ll never write a novel. I find more of interest in it than I might in ten chapters of a book.
There are so many possibilities which I haven’t explored.
Here are a few:
In this life, there are tragedies that pale shame. [The Sentence I chose.]
In this life, there are tragedies which pale shame.
Shame is sometimes paled by our deepest tragedies.
Some tragedies pale shame.
In my experience (bringing the narrator in again), many times tragedy pales shame.
Or, if he/she wants to wax wisely: The answer I’ve found to the many heinous acts men commit: our tragedies pale our shame.
I could go on and on and love every minute of it.
And that is why, I will never write a novel.
Here’s an article I read today about the vulnerability it takes to write. Well done.
I would add to that we are all writing non-fiction even when we say it’s fiction. There is so much of people close to me in this little piece about “Why Harry Didn’t Wake Her” that I feel a little embarrassed I borrowed (lifted) so much.
But how can we write anything we don’t know–or allowed ourselves to feel vicariously?
If a reader close to us (say, a family member) finds themselves in the characters and doesn’t like what they see, whose fault is it? Mine, or theirs?
The reality is that all our lives can be written a thousand different ways depending on the perspective. I can think of five close friends of mine who would write my life differently, and I can almost predict the direction in which they’d write it.
I pride myself on being a straight arrow–what you see is what you get–but one of my friends compared me to one of my sneaky pets. Am I that sneaky pet? Should I protest that comparison or see its truth and laugh about it?
Damn, I am that sneaky pet. I guess. Maybe. Sometimes.
There’s very little of the hero in any of us, but we do have moments.
Which is why I like “Harry” so much and would love to tidy up this little story and give him a heroic exit. But I haven’t written the ending yet and stories have lives of their own and come from places in us we think we’ve never seen.
Or, have we?