Other lives

As a writer, I find it necessary to wonder about the lives of others, and in so doing, furnish my own writer’s treasure chest of words and phrases with the plausible details that make up a believable story. But on top of that, I am also required to look inside my own life, open my own windows to my soul, and speak to the memories and the dreams that lie there, in the hope of getting a grip on what makes my own heart beat.

It isn’t easy. It is far easier to look at what little we know about the lives of others than to look inside our own dark abyss and grapple with the unknowns swimming inside those murky depths. To do this requires a deep-seated and ancient sensibility, which I don't have. So I look outwards, towards the lives of others, and make up stories in my head and in my drafts about them, plots of my own doing, inventions and fabrications that spice up my own reality.

Such has been my long-time habit as writer. I wonder about other lives, other worlds, in the quest to gather details that make up a good story. This comes easy for me, since I live my life fairly quietly, not too publicly, and with a propensity for taking down copious notes.

And perhaps this is how it will be for now. I will look less inside myself and more into the activities, concerns, troubles, affectations, and outward lives of others, as quietly as I can, as invisibly as I can, and store them all inside my writer’s treasure chest of words and details. Someday, I will open that chest.

[Image credits: 1, 2]