Although I seem to have some kind of flu bug–no energy, coughing, aches and pains–I am feeling better about my life than I have in a long, long time.
It’s one thing to create drama in my stories. It’s another to create drama in my life.
My imagination is, to put it mildly, well-developed. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. Why it’s good is obvious: I get to write stories for a living. It’s the right life, the best life, for me, and I’m grateful. Why it can be bad is trickier to explain and to recognize when it’s happening. It seems I’m in costume and out there on stage tap-dancing myself into exhaustion before I realize that I’m doing it again. I’m dramatizing. Things are magnified–especially fears.
And I wake up with a knot of anxiety in my middle, like I did this morning.
Drat. I’ve been making another epic production of my life–cast of thousands, with camels and pyramids and miles of sand in the background–a stirring orchestral score, swelling to a crescendo. Maybe Charleton Heston, parting the Red Sea.
(Oh, for Pete’s sake. Get over yourself, Linda Lee Lael. You’re that little girl from Northport, and sometimes you’re just plain astounded to find yourself living the dream. Hard to believe it’s real, huh?)
Now, to push up my sleeves and do what I love. WRITING stories for you to read, instead of ones in my head, designed to scare the bejeebers out of me.