We are a story telling species. Our culture and our minds developed around the stories we told, the narratives we weaved. And they weren’t just narratives on some big screen that we watched for two hours, and then walked out and continued with “real life”. Our narratives were woven into our lives. And still are.
In modern times we got quite serious about separating fact from fiction. “Those are just stories. This is reality, the facts, real life. Don’t go confusing the two. Get real, you’re not living in a movie.”
But of course we are. We weave ourselves narratives about our own lives. Our ambitions and dreams for our fictionalised futures are narratives we dream up for ourselves. Our present doesn’t always follow the plot, but still, around it we are also weaving a narrative, part storyteller, part audience, but how we choose to interpret events carries much weight. Our past provides back story on which to draw to weave both our interpretations of the present, and our dreams and plot line for the future. And many sources of inspiration from which to steal ideas.
I’m going to more consciously throw myself into a narrative, let it be a source of courage, a rudder for steering the ship, enabling the sails to catch ambition. Though the plot may often get lost, though the genre may be unknown, though the critics might label the book “absurdist” and end with the police arresting the medieval nuts and putting an end to the filming, if you’re not at least pointing in some direction, you’ve got no incentive to catch the wind.
I’ll let you know how it works out.