inklingfair There’s this little hole in my head I’ve been trying to plug up since Friday evening. It’s somewhere between Flutterbudget Center and Rigmarole Town – I was worried but convinced I wasn’t worried about trifles, and I went round and round in circles but I’m not trying to explain it to someone else. I’m trying to make sense of my brain and that hole.
Haha, I’m not making sense.
The long and short of it is, I’ve finished digesting a found story, and things have clicked together in my head. Time-lapses and mixed accounts are starting to make sense, and surprise, surprise, surprise, I was worried over trifles. But the gaps are filled and I guess I’m ready to let the thing go. Funny how time set aside to read can calm you.
I think I was worried more about the author than myself. Because the story affected me so much, I couldn’t bear seeing it end like it did, and tried to look for the downward spiral, the process, the flaws, the chips in people’s armors. I could see myself in the lead character (a more passionate version of me, I must admit). I have characters like the author’s, and I wish I could get into their heads like she does, but that’s her narrative and this is mine. I am not her, and will not be her, and my story’s going to be different. No less wonderful, I hope, and as rewarding to read.
I feel like Dorothy back safe in the Emerald City. I feel lucky. Isn’t life grand?
