As writers, we build worlds, create people from dust motes, give them words and hopes and dreams, and then give them hell so they have to fight for their happy ending (assuming we even let them have one). So why should we expect any less from our own lives? Maybe it’s that as world-creators, we think that we really do control everything. We do, but only on the page. Out in the real world, we control nothing. And going from one to the other is jarring. I get confused about why the life I imagine for myself doesn’t materialize until I realize, that only works on paper. And I wonder why my characters seem to do things I didn’t intend them to until I remember, I’m the one writing it.
But… today I’m enjoying a rare bit of happy news (it’s not for public consumption, sorry) that was totally unexpected, and nothing I would have imagined, because I have no control out in the real world, except that it’s about my own writing, which I do have control of. So that makes the line blurry, and me a little confused about what I’m really capable of manifesting in my life.
How much of it is effort, and how much of it is left up to God, or fate, or luck?
As you ponder this (or not) I leave you with an image of sunflowers with their backs to the sun, which cracked me up this morning, for some reason. The image is from Photobotos.com.