Getting older is rough.
I’m not the first to say it, and I certainly won’t be the last.
Rent, money, groceries, utility bill, money, car insurance, aging grandparents, money, crippling anxiety, stress, stress due to money.
Feels like the older you get, the more bullshit you find in the world. Usually, stuff that doesn’t even matter all that much in the long run. Sometimes you just need a break from the grind.
I found my desperately needed oasis in the art of storytelling.
When I was younger, I loved reading tales of heroes that would, against all the odds, overcome adversity and evil, sidekicks that would make me laugh, and even villains who were never lacking in personality.
There is a sense of childlike innocents from those stories that I still carry around with me today.
Of course, as we age, so do our tastes. Many times fiction isn’t as simple as a good guy beating a bad guy, or good vs. evil. Often times it creates a space to understand the gray area and explore the more complicated issues in our life and society.
Regardless, everyone loves a good story. Many days it feels like the last bastion of childhood wonder we maintain. A place where we allow ourselves to believe in magic.
That’s why I fell head over heels in love with writing.
A budding story doesn’t take into account a writers credit history or socio-economic status. It won’t just get up and leave if you’re lacking in a 401k.
A story just wants to be told, and it wants to be told by you. Because you’re the only one who can tell it right.
We have the rest of our lives we have to consider circumstances and budgets. But in a story, our story, everything else fades away.
There are many stressors and anxieties we have to face daily. There is no avoiding it. Its a part of our reality and it’s not necessarily a bad thing.
But I tell you, if someone has ever said to you that magic doesn’t exist in this world, that person has never truly experienced the power of fiction.