It only feels epic when told as a story,

With an audience at rapt attention, with ‘Likes’ racking up and ‘follows’ multiplying.

But actually happening?

Uncertainty abounds. No orchestra playing,

No theme song running through the mind.

There’s twists and turns,

Fears and indecision.

Moments of regret and anticipation of pain, loss, confusion.

There’s plain human needs,

Unromantic and disruptive,

Edited from the story as they drag the thrill of it through the mud,

Or at least through the dust bunnies,

Scattering, pretending they didn’t exist.

‘Don’t see me. I’m not here.’

Story is good, entertaining, a reprieve but make no mistake,

Life is lived one unglamorous day after another.

If we’re lucky, or purposeful we have a story to tell after a while,

If not, we’ve passed our time, passed by mile markers,

And arrive at the end of the road.

---

This is not meant to be depressing…but it is a bit of ‘popping the bubble’. I both simultaneously love getting lost in a story and dislike the lie of it. What makes a story engaging, is the edit of reality which bucks up against my realist self. But what’s life without a little internal friction? I endeavor as a writer to have a balance between real and fabricated, that the construct of my fiction isn’t so formulaic that it’s clearly fiction played like a song with certain chords, melody, predictable, not at all a reflection of life. The best fiction touches my soul and I don’t even notice the ‘happily ever after’. Just some jumbled thoughts! Have a great writing (or reading) day! Best, Clare.