It’s been a while since I wrote anything about me, instead of working on fiction. Critiques do that to me. Once I start getting them, I start being inspired to write more on whatever is being critiqued. Even cruel, hurtful, and otherwise not nice crits do that to me. I may get defensive to begin with, and then I being to think about the content rather than how it was said. Usually, there’s a valid point in there somewhere.

So I’ve been writing straight now for a while. Today, I must take some time to pay bills, buy a few necessary items, and otherwise deal with reality. I really, really, need to deal with my garden, which has been sadly neglected for a week or so. I can hear the plants out there mewling for attention.

But, this morning, before all the rush starts, I did manage to do a few crits. Not too bad, these writers. I’m encouraged by the quality of things out there. So much to learn, though, and only one lifetime to do it. I’m talking about me, not them, actually. Sometimes, I feel like I just got off the turnip truck.

Why do people write fiction in the first place? Obviously, writing is always about communication, but why fiction? I tell stories to communicate the emotions I feel. I tell them to explore my own experiences in a way that’s non-threatening to me. By placing a completely fictional character in odd situations, I can explore my feelings through a buffer. And, when someone else reads it, if they also experience the same feelings, then I’m not alone.

Is it, then, an attempt at being social?

Or is it really just an attempt to go beyond my own boundaries, become someone other than an aging grandmother/mother/wife?

Maybe a little of both. I don’t have any illusions of grandeur. I’m not gorgeous, rich, or even all that interesting to most people. (Unless my daughter talks about me. She calls me the crazy plant lady. Lol) I have my issues, like most human beings, and my good points. I’m selfish to a point, and selfless in other ways. I’ve adapted my life to meet my needs, and now just want to relax and enjoy the feel of being content. I never had that in my youth, always trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed, manage other people so I could feel better about me, and otherwise control my world. I thought I had to interact with it in a meaningful way so I could become something better than I thought I was.

Silly me.

The secret to being happy isn’t to organize everything around you into what you want it to be. It never works, and it’s really a waste of frustrated effort. The real happiness comes when you can accept the world, find all the good bits in it, and let the rest resolve itself. The only thing that anyone can change is themselves. I still force myself to smile when I walk out the door. But it’s slowly becoming easier.

There are days, though, when I wake to an immediate feeling of doom, of a need to fix things or my world will crumble. Those days are difficult. But again, I’m working on it, and someday, maybe before I die, I’ll get the hang of it. I need to do a short story on that, perhaps. Inspiration is everywhere, I guess.

So, the thought for the day might be ‘smile – it makes people wonder’.

Just keep writing.