I’ve never felt like writers who invent stories must be feeling. It was always impossible for me to imagine being somebody else.
Once I got this advice from an experienced writer whom I met in Denmark but was Irish: “Write the things you wish to tell the people around you.”
I looked at him while whispering on the inside: “But I tell them all the time. Aloud. Instead.”
I guess I’ve liked being me too much. I like my beliefs, what I stand for, my preferences, my taste.
I like my patterns, there is nothing in my past (and barely anything in my present) that I’d like to change.
Once I took part as a test bunny in a seminar for healers, and they asked me to state one thing about myself that I’d like to change.
That made me a bit angry. Why everybody supposes that we would like to change? Advertisers, sellers, fellow beings, therapists.
Except dogs. They are pretty sure in their unsupposing.
So I said: “Maybe we could work on my anger.”
Then came the past lives talk. Designing my own death in a Stefanel-inspired skirt with my neck on the chopping block in a forested area in Highlander times was fun.
But I’m not a writer. So it must have really happened. 😀
It’s true though: the only stories I gather are my own.
Luckily at least one is happening at all times.
Now – photography, on the other hand…
Photo: a © signature mmm production