Having started writing only in the last decade, I’ve been amazed that I haven’t yet run out of stories. With the exception of an exceptional year last year, my life isn’t especially interesting. I’m a middle-aged mom living in America suburbia, working in mundane finance. I don’t travel the world saving baby seals or feeding the starving. I go to work, pay my bills, and flounder at raising two strong-willed teenage daughters. My life is really pretty boring…you’d think I wouldn’t have much to talk about.
But God made me an analyzer. I think about (or overthink, according to my husband) everything. I’m compelled to make sense of it all, even others’ behavior when they appear not to make sense. I can usually find the pattern in almost everything, which reassuringly helps me sort out the world. It is this mental turning over of every event, every conversation, that turns up the puzzles, the interesting questions that provide plenty of fodder for this blog. Why is there suffering and death? Why are some people self-destructive? How can I help my daughters avoid brick walls in their lives? Why is life so hard? I am driven to find answers to the questions which don’t have answers.
Even though my life is pretty tame, there is no escaping the human condition. Life is tough, and we only get one shot at getting it right. So I will go on struggling with the difficult questions, trying to find answers that I can live with, writing them down as therapy which crystallizes at least the questions, if not the answers. For me, at least, stories are not optional.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” –Maya Angelou