Stable is boring

maybe I take being stable for granted

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So my whole life, I have loved to write. I have written a few short stories and I’ve often thought about maybe even writing a novel. But the kind of writing I like to do isn’t all the fantasy crap.. About vampires and glitter or falling in love in Paris (although I love reading all that). I like to write what’s real. What’s right in front of me. What happens to me.

Now all that being said… It’s not easy to write something intriguing or even remotely interesting when you’re life is so….. Stable. I mean, I read “a child called it” and cried for nights on end for this poor child. I couldn’t put the book down.. It was so interesting. I felt in every way possible for this man’s journey. He had such a hard life and made something of it, a book. Well, that’s where the greatest stories come from, from a terribly hard life.

Where is my great story? Where is my tragedy? Where is my anything?

Of course I can write you a book about all the places I’ve traveled (been done), about my wonderful, crazy, and neurotic family (been done), about my passion for yoga and how it’s gotten me through my toughest days, maybe even about my family immigrating from Germany?? (BEEN DONE). What irks me the most is that I have nothing to contribute. I want to share my deepest thoughts but I don’t have anything to show you that I’m real too..

But you know what positive I learned about this? I’M STABLE. I’m lucky to have lived a stable life. With great tragedy comes great books and great movies and great things to indulge myself in when I’m bored beyond belief.. But aren’t I lucky to not have lived these terrible things?

Don’t you think a child would give up being beaten for a life without stories? Wouldn’t they give up being moved around house to house for a “boring” one house family? Wouldn’t they give all of that up for your sad, uninteresting life?

Never once have I read a sad book and thought “I wish I had lived this so I could have written this great book first.” Of course not, that’s nonsense. I feel empathy, I feel the want to help, I feel the need to reach out and tell them “I’m here for you.. Thanks for sharing your story.” But that being said, I have this crazy underlying jealousy about the fact that they have something to write about. And on the other hand they have a not so crazy jealousy that I have nothing to write about.

Take a step back and look at your situation.. Don’t wish something you don’t fully understand. Don’t underestimate the pain someone else has been through and minimize it to a good book. They lived it. And that’s what truly makes it such a good read.. Thank you.

XORelatable

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