Identity

I thought I’d feel wise when I turned 40. Not that I’d get some magical dose of extra over-the-hill wisdom, just that I’d be at an age where I could share some life wisdom and be taken seriously.

It’s been a few years and all I know is more about what I don’t know. And in the last six months, since buying a house and being damned (temporarily) to a stationary life, I’ve realized how little I still know about myself.

This week I spent a significant amount of time longing for a life without close relationships. I don’t know where it came from. I’m not totally familiar with this part of me.

It’s not a healthy desire, I’ve seen the data. Close relationships with family and friends are key to happiness, and to health.

But I just kept day-dreaming about driving a van down the 101. Stopping at diners to write. Sleeping in the back of the van. Sitting on the beach, the cool salt air kissing my cheeks.

Just now, I envisioned it again, so that I could describe it here. Thinking about it brought tears to my eyes. What in the overdramatic-extra reaction was that?

Do I want it so bad I’m crying because I can’t have it? Do I feel bad for wanting to be alone? Am I sad because something’s probably wrong with me that I’m daydreaming about being a lonely old lady living in a van?

And have I entered into an unhealthy level of introspection?

Probably.

Definitely.

I’m writing this character who had a found-family and ran from it (with good reason). She doesn’t want anything to do with anyone, not beyond the surface level anyway. And she’s content. She has a routine, a couple of things she likes to do (alone), and she’s good.

It’s a book, so obviously something happens and drags her unwittingly into an adventure where she will use her skills, do awesome things, and learn a little something about herself that she can use to save the day.

And along the way, there are a couple of moments that reinforce her conviction to be alone. They remind her how badly she’s been hurt, how badly she hurt others, and how badly she hurt others unintentionally when she was hurting.

To my character, it felt so bad to be around others, the people who hurt her and the people she hurt, that being around no one felt good by comparison.

Maybe not the happiest, and maybe not the healthiest, but good.

Books always want to make this kind of character find family and/or friendship again.

My book is no different. It wants that in a bad way. It’ll probably get it too. In fact (and unrelated to this post), it’ll probably play a big role in the part of the story I’m writing next, the one I’m pretty blocked about, the reason I haven’t written a scene in over a week.

But what my book and all the other books don’t understand is that my character is fine. She is good without anyone right now. It’s like she’s in a little boat on a calm lake and, sure, she could be happier or more fulfilled if she took the boat into rougher waters, but why?

She’s had her fair share of near drownings and it’s pretty rude of the book to expect her risk any more just to meet genre conventions and reader expectations. Jeez.

I think what I’m getting at is that authors should be nicer to their characters? Or maybe it’s that authors should be nicer to themselves?

Or maybe I should make sure my characters get what they need instead of what they want, so they don’t spend their limited number of days on this planet playing it safe.

It’s one of those. Probably the one that has me closing out of the Marketplace search for vans.

But what do I know? I’m only a few years past 40.