I knew there would be no discernable difference in this October from last. I really had not expected anything else...only hoped.
I think I would make a terrific heroine (and I use that word purely as a literary term) in a novel. I've got all the right characterisics of great character: I've got the soul of a blues singer, the humor of a comedian, the heart of a child, the defenses of Fort Knox, and great insight. I've had a troubled life and battle with ennui. I am a classic underachiever, though intelligent and capable. I am reasonably well-liked but don't believe that I am. I am insightful, a good friend and a family member who struggles with her family, but means only the best. See? I have all the makings of a fine fictional protagonist. And there is so much potential in the story for the sort of metamorphasis or positive changes that we readers like to read about in our novels. We like to see a character form and grow and change into the person we saw she was destined to be from the very first chapter. We don't require that she be successful in the traditional sense, only that she (through some personal self-awareness and self-help struggle) achieves whatever it is that she wants to achieve. Although, sometimes, we'll allow her to achieve something she did not know she wanted, but learns, in fact, is exactly what she needed. And we leave the novel knowing that she will be happy - this terrific woman with whom we identify on so many levels. We feel our hearts swell a little with pride and envy and joy as we close the book and set it aside. We look around us. Sometimes when we look, we see things as they should be and we smile smugly. Sometimes when we look, we see things as a depressing reminder of what we have not become and don't know how to become. Those times, we don't smile; we turn the light out and bury our faces in our pillows, pull the covers up, close our eyes, and try to block it out. We convince ourselves that we are tired so that we can (blessedly) fall asleep. Most mornings, we wake up with only a distant memory of the feelings we felt the night before and we carry on.
And for almost every other woman, I see them actually making it through their journey and reaching that place where they can smile smugly and go to sleep convinced things are good.
But, just like a true heroine in a novel, I have a tragic flaw. Only my tragic flaw isn't endearing and, therefore, it is fatal. No, the fatal flaw of the heroine in my life, is that she never does get there. She never does reach that place.
And we all know that anywhere else is no place to be...no matter what we tell ourselves.
