Any time I tell myself that being a writer and writing fiction books and making things up and selling them to people is not a worthy profession, I need to stop and remember all of the times someone else telling a story saved my mind.
Right now I’m anxiously crossing off days on the calendar on the way to having my surgery. The last few weeks have been the usual mish-mash of pain, no pain, depression, happiness, fatigue, and energy. During the lowest points, the things that have saved me are things that, on the surface, don’t seem like worthy things for someone to have made or used time and resources to complete:
A series of “useless conversations” between three Englishmen.
The story of the brutal murder of a British boy played out onscreen by in-real-life adults pretending to be other not-real people in a completely made up story.
A prequel we don’t deserve about a skeevy lawyer that turned out to be exactly the prequel we all need.
These three things seem silly on the surface. It’s not “real” work. It’s “only” art. They’ve all been put together by adults playing pretend and telling stories: some real, some exaggerated, and some entirely fictitious. And yet, over the years, books and movies and television and stories have kept me sane and entertained. Stories are the things that make life exciting for me.
Telling stories is work worth doing. I don’t ever want to forget that.