The story of your life is not your life; it’s your story.
— John Barth. (I assume he was looking at someone over a pince-nez when saying this.)
My life? Predestined, which is the nice way of saying completely out of control.
My story? Complete free will. Sheer will. Sheer lunacy.
As I dip my toes into middle age, into suburbia, into motherhood, into my third career, into my second adolescence, each day seems to bring the opportunity for me to look around and ask that immortal question posed first by David Byrne: How did I get here?
My blog is my Here. It is my map. It is also my trail of breadcrumbs, showing me where I’ve been when I get lost, as well as where not to go if I want to avoid getting lost in the first place. It shows me when I’ve used too many words, and prods me when I don’t use enough. It is my courage. It is my lens. It is hapless. It is happy. It is haywire. It is my playground.
It is not my journal. That’s my life.
This is my story.
Sometimes my story is best told in fiction. Little palatable bites of truth woven in fantasy and stretchy Silly Putty transfers.
Our stories are unique and universal. We tell them to connect with other little specks in the world, so we all feel a little bigger and a little closer.
We inhale each other’s tales. Come in, take a deep breath. My stories may resonate with the fury and might of a thousand toddlers banging on a thousand pots asking for Mac n’ Cheese for the thousandth time. Or, my stories may curl up against your leg, providing a familiar warmth. Or an irritating itch.
I hope you read in relief or solidarity or horror or good humor or recognition or gratitude that there but for the grace of DNA go I.
I’m just making it up as I go along…