Rewrite My Life Quotes

Today, I slept in until 10, Cleaned every dish I own, Fought with the bank, Took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, But I don’t speak for others anymore, And I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burnt down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, And it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, Or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.

I wish I could rewrite you out of my life But all your pages are highlighted Dog-eared and thumbed to death I can no longer read you But you are still my favorite poem

I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?

There is no denying I’m once again complete in her presence. This is my place. I belong to her and my place is by her side. And the absoluteness of that statement is profound, and it begs to rewrite my life.

My point is simple: Adults will have negative opinions about you and everything you do. Let Them judge. Let Them react. Let Them doubt you. Let Them question the decisions you are making. Let Them be wrong about you. Let Them roll their eyes when you start posting videos online or you want to rewrite the manuscript for the 12th time. Instead of wasting your time worrying about them, start living your life in a way that makes you proud of yourself. Let Me do what I want to do with my one wild and precious life.

I would willingly pass my life writing and re-writing the same book - that one book every writer carries within him - the image of his own soul.

Beyond imagination and insight, the most important component of talent is perseverance—the will to write and rewrite in pursuit of perfection. Therefore, when inspiration sparks the desire to write, the artist immediately asks: Is this idea so fascinating, so rich in possibility, that I want to spend months, perhaps years, of my life in pursuit of its fulfillment? Is this concept so exciting that I will get up each morning with the hunger to write? Will this inspiration compel me to sacrifice all of life's other pleasures in my quest to perfect its telling? If the answer is no, find another idea. Talent and time are a writer's only assets. Why give your life to an idea that's not worth your life?

It takes one person to rewrite the history book.

And so I write. I write my life. I write to escape real life. I write to live moments over again. I write to rewrite the moments I’ve lived over in a way that makes more sense to me. I write the moments to heal. I write the moments I hope never happen. And I write the moments I hope will happen.

[of Nan Goldin] In an afterword to Ballad written in 2012, she declared: ‘I decided as a young girl I was going to leave a record of my life and experience that no one could rewrite or deny.

The upside of culling people from my life is that my focus has become very clear. My vision has become razor sharp. I now work to see people, not as I’d rewrite them, but as they have written themselves. I see them for who they are. And for who I am with them. Because it’s not merely about surrounding myself with people who treat me well. It’s also about surrounding myself with people whose self-worth, self-respect and values inspire me to elevate my own behavior.

I love you, and it's driving me crazy to see you so upset. I want to fix it, and I know I can't. But what I want to do is rewrite this whole world so you can fix it. I want to come up with a story that all the world will choose to celebrate, and in it, the people we love will never get sick, and the people we love will never be sad for long, and there would be unlimited frozen hot chocolate. Maybe if it were up to me I wouldn't have the whole world collectively believe in Santa Claus, but I would definitely have them collectively believe in something, because there is a messed-up kind of beauty in the way we can bend over backward to make life seem magical when we want to. In other words, after giving it some thought , I think that reality has the distinct potential to complete suck, and the way to get around that is to step out of reality with someone you completely, unadulteratedly enjoy. In my life, that's you. And if it takes dressing up like Santa to get that across to you, then so be it.

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?

I will never be a brain surgeon, and I will never play the piano like Glenn Gould. But what keeps me up late at night, and constantly gives me reason to fret, is this: I don’t know what I don’t know. There are universes of things out there — ideas, philosophies, songs, subtleties, facts, emotions — that exist but of which I am totally and thoroughly unaware. This makes me very uncomfortable. I find that the only way to find out the fuller extent of what I don’t know is for someone to tell me, teach me or show me, and then open my eyes to this bit of information, knowledge, or life experience that I, sadly, never before considered. Afterward, I find something odd happens. I find what I have just learned is suddenly everywhere: on billboards or in the newspaper or SMACK: Right in front of me, and I can’t help but shake my head and speculate how and why I never saw or knew this particular thing before. And I begin to wonder if I could be any different, smarter, or more interesting had I discovered it when everyone else in the world found out about this particular obvious thing. I have been thinking a lot about these first discoveries and also those chance encounters: those elusive happenstances that often lead to defining moments in our lives. […] I once read that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I fundamentally disagree with this idea. I think that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of hope. We might keep making mistakes but the struggle gives us a sense of empathy and connectivity that we would not experience otherwise. I believe this empathy improves our ability to see the unseen and better know the unknown. Lives are shaped by chance encounters and by discovering things that we don’t know that we don’t know. The arc of a life is a circuitous one. … In the grand scheme of things, everything we do is an experiment, the outcome of which is unknown. You never know when a typical life will be anything but, and you won’t know if you are rewriting history, or rewriting the future, until the writing is complete. This, just this, I am comfortable not knowing.

In life, my dear, you must actually go after what you want. You can’t rewrite the past, but you can choose to live with your whole heart in the here and now.

Growing up is never easy. We think it happens when you reach a certain age, accomplish a goal, acquire a house, or reach a milestone, but it doesn’t stop.

That first choice to leave an unhappy home had put me on a path strewn with more choices. Such was life. I had to accept it without looking for certainties.

dear samantha i’m sorry we have to get a divorce i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain: it’s not you it sure as hell isn’t me it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night i know you would never DO anything, you never do but.. i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication. after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away this is not true after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down while he still has control over his motor functions he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes spooning every morsel into her mouth she wastes nothing even the exoskeleton goes she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them now that.. is selflessness i could never do that for you so i have a new plan i’m gonna leave you now i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices i hope you do the same i will jay walk at every opportunity i will steal things i could easily afford i will be rude to strangers i hope you do the same i hope reincarnation is real i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures i hope we are reborn as flies so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to.

I decided to create a home from scratch, something that would reflect my tastes and preferences with a combination of objects and energy that would add up to a safe and inviting space for the people and experiences I wanted to welcome into my life.

Allen Ginsberg instructs: "First thought, best thought." Oh, to have my every spontaneous thought count as poetry! No draft after draft like a draft horse. Clayton Eshleman, laughing, said, "'First thought best thought' is not 'First word best word ' Ginsberg does rewrite. I'm sure he does.

Jesus didn’t have to extend His love. He didn’t have to think of me when He went up on that cross. He didn’t have to rewrite my story from one of beauty to one of brokenness and create a whole new brand of beauty. He simply didn’t have to do it, but He did. He bought me. He bought me that day He died, and He showed His power when He overcame death and rose from the grave. He overcame my death in that moment. He overcame my fear of death in that unbelievable, beautiful moment, and the fruit of that death, that resurrection, and that stunning grace is peace. It is the hardest peace, because it is brutal. Horribly brutal and ugly, and we want to look away, but it is the greatest, greatest story that ever was. And it was, and it is.

Everyday I rewrite her name across my ribcage so that those who wish to break my heart will know who to answer to later She has no idea that I’ve taught my tongue to make pennies, and every time our mouths are to meet I will slip coins to the back of her throat and make wishes I wish that someday my head on her belly might be like home like doubt to doubt resuscitation because time is supposed to mean more than skin She doesn’t know that I have taught my arms to close around her clocks so they can withstand the fallout from her Autumn She is so explosive, volcanoes watch her and learn terrorists want to strap her to their chests because she is a cause worth dying for Maybe someday time will teach me to pick up her pieces put her back together and remind her to click her heels but she doesn’t need a wizard to tell her that I was here all along Lady let us catch the next tornado home let us plant cantaloupe trees in our backyard then maybe together we will realize that we don’t like cantaloupe and they don’t grow on trees we can laugh about it then we can plant things we’ve never heard of I’ve never heard of a woman who can make flawed look so beautiful the way you do The word smitten is to how I feel about you what a kiss is to romance so maybe my lips to yours could be the penance to this confession because I am the only one preaching your defunct religion sitting alone at your altar, praising you out of faith I cannot do this hard-knock life alone You are all the softness a rock dreams of being the mistakes the rain makes at picnics when Mother Nature bears witness in much better places So yes I will gladly take on your ocean just to swim beneath you so I can kiss the bends of your knees in appreciation for the work they do keeping your head above water

DFW: I think there are different people on the page than in real life. I do six to eight drafts of everything that I do. Um, I am probably not the smartest writer going. But I also--and I know, OK, this is gonna fit right into the persona--I work really really hard. I'm really--you give me twenty-four hours? If we'd done this interview through the mail? I could be really really really smart. I'm not all that fast. And I'm really self-conscious. And I get confused really easily. When I'm in a room by myself alone, and have enough time, I can be really really smart. And people are different that way. You know what I mean? I may not--I don't think I'm quite as smart, one-on-one with people, when I'm self-conscious, and I'm really really confused. And it's like, My dream would be for you to write this up, and then to send it to me, and I get to rewrite all my quotes to you. Which of course you'll never do...

I felt my spirits lift. I would leave the map of my life here, in Jaipur. I would leave behind a hundred thousand henna strikes. I would no longer call myself a henna artist but tell anyone who asked : I healed, I soothed. I made whole. I would leave behind the useless apologies for my disobedience. I would leave behind my yearning to rewrite my past. My skills, my eagerness to learn and my desire for a life I could call my own - these were things I would take with me. They were part of me the way my blood, my breath, my bones were

A play is a blueprint of an event: a way of creating and rewriting history through the medium of literature. Since history is a recorded or remembered event, theatre, for me, is the perfect place to 'make' history--that is, because so much of African-American history has been unrecorded, dismembered, washed out, one of my tasks as a playwright is to--through literature and the special strange relationship between theatre and real-life--locate the ancestral burial ground, dig for bones, find bones, hear the bones sing, write it down.

God began rewriting the ending to my life's story, our worlds collided with His, and He provided us with the most beautiful second chance.

Maybe I could rewrite the fairy tale of my life, transforming every blow to the head, and every cut to the cunt, and every crucified doll into some kind of an initiation.

God began rewriting the ending to my life's story, our worlds collided with His, and He provided us with the most beautiful second chance.

I am rewriting history from the perspective of now, because non-fiction is always also a kind of fiction.

For my entire life, my heart has only beat for one person. That’s you, Cade Jennings. Even without knowing if you’d ever be mine, I knew I was yours.

Instead of assembling the shattered pieces of my outer existence and inner reality into an incomprehensible structure, I learned to consciously create a new life.

The worst thing about your life falling apart is that the world takes no notice.

I wish I could rewrite you out of my life But all your pages are highlighted Dog-eared and thumbed to death I can no longer read you But you are still my favorite poem

dear samantha i’m sorry we have to get a divorce i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain: it’s not you it sure as hell isn’t me it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night i know you would never DO anything, you never do but.. i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication. after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away this is not true after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down while he still has control over his motor functions he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes spooning every morsel into her mouth she wastes nothing even the exoskeleton goes she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them now that.. is selflessness i could never do that for you so i have a new plan i’m gonna leave you now i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices i hope you do the same i will jay walk at every opportunity i will steal things i could easily afford i will be rude to strangers i hope you do the same i hope reincarnation is real i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures i hope we are reborn as flies so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to

Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, shit, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly.

From measuring my life in terms of milestones, I now tried to measure it in moments—those small pockets of time that float with great radiance even though they are embedded in the minutiae of life.

Let Them judge. Let Them react. Let Them doubt you. Let Them question the decisions you are making. Let Them be wrong about you. Let Them roll their eyes when you start posting videos online or you want to rewrite the manuscript for the 12th time. Instead of wasting your time worrying about them, start living your life in a way that makes you proud of yourself. Let Me do what I want to do with my one wild and precious life.

Aside from it being a shortened version of her name, she always reminded me of the sun. She brought light into my life. And for right now, even if it’s only for a brief moment, she brings a little bit of light into a darkness.

It took more than motherhood to move me toward meditation. I first had to lose things—my mother, my marriage, my cynicism. I had to make life-changing decisions. Yet I moved, step by step, into the unknown inner world. Hesitatingly. Skeptically. Slowly.

In conscious life, we achieve some sense of ourselves as reasonably unified, coherent selves, and without this action would be impossible. But all this is merely at the ‘imaginary’ level of the ego, which is no more than the tip of the iceberg of the human subject known to psychoanalysis. The ego is function or effect of a subject which is always dispersed, never identical with itself, strung out along the chains of the discourses which constitute it. There is a radical split between these two levels of being — a gap most dramatically exemplified by the act of referring to myself in a sentence. When I say ‘Tomorrow I will mow the lawn,’ the ‘I’ which I pronounce is an immediately intelligible, fairly stable point of reference which belies the murky depths of the ‘I’ which does the pronouncing. The former ‘I’ is known to linguistic theory as the ‘subject of the enunciation’, the topic designated by my sentence; the latter ‘I’, the one who speaks the sentence, is the ‘subject of the enunciating’, the subject of the actual act of speaking. In the process of speaking and writing, these two ‘I’s’ seem to achieve a rough sort of unity; but this unity is of an imaginary kind. The ‘subject of the enunciating’, the actual speaking, writing human person, can never represent himself or herself fully in what is said: there is no sign which will, so to speak, sum up my entire being. I can only designate myself in language by a convenient pronoun. The pronoun ‘I’ stands in for the ever-elusive subject, which will always slip through the nets of any particular piece of language; and this is equivalent to saying that I cannot ‘mean’ and ‘be’ simultaneously. To make this point, Lacan boldly rewrites Descartes’s ‘I think, therefore I am’ as: ‘I am not where I think, and I think where I am not.

I sigh, wishing I could be honest and tell her I think she’ll be the only person I love my entire life. I think the ghost of our memories will haunt me on the ranch. It’ll be bittersweet to watch her make every single one of her dreams come true without me in her life.

My eyes burn with unshed tears from the reminder of how unbelievably hard that time of my life was. It felt like everything was going wrong and I couldn’t tell a soul—not even Pippa—what was happening. Nobody knew that I’d had my heart broken by a man who was my entire world.

The experiment changed Sally’s life. In the following days she realised she has been through a ‘near-spiritual experience…what defined the experience was not feeling smarter or learning faster: the thing that made the earth drop out from under my feet was that for the first time in my life, everything in my head finally shut up…My brain without self-doubt was a revelation. There was suddenly this incredible silence in my head…I hope you can sympathise with me when I tell you that the thing I wanted most acutely for the weeks following my experience was to go back and strap on those electrodes. I also started to have a lot of questions. Who was I apart from the angry bitter gnomes that populate my mind and drive me to failure because I’m too scared to try? And where did those voices come from?’7 Some of those voices repeat society’s prejudices, some echo our personal history, and some articulate our genetic legacy. All of them together, says Sally, create an invisible story that shapes our conscious decisions in ways we seldom grasp. What would happen if we could rewrite our inner monologues, or even silence them completely on occasion? 8

Changing my narrative from one of complaint and dissatisfaction to a more positive one changed my mood, but it didn’t change all the other negatives that had tipped the balance of our marital life into dysfunction. Memories of good times were a reminder that life cannot be measured in purely black and white terms. The good and bad coexist in a tenuous equilibrium that is always in flux.

But, it’s not like I ever let my guard down. It’s not like I ever feel safe in this new life. I am an interloper obsessed with honing my facade. I’ve built my entire life—my new life—around keeping my past a secret. My husband knows bits and pieces, but even the little bits he knows have been reshaped and colored by my persistent rewriting and massaging of the “facts.” I shudder to think what would happen if he knew the truth of who I was. The whole truth.

Memoirs and historical monographs by New Left historians painted a virginal portrait of radical protesters, rewriting the history of the period on a scale that would have seemed impossible outside the Communist bloc. In his own memoir, Hayden includes pages of excerpts from his FBI file, interspersed with disingenuous presentations of his political career that keep his readers in the dark about many of the far-from-innocent activities in which he actual1y engaged.

The meticulous nature of my planning was not born of malice but of necessity. It was a declaration of independence, a refusal to be the victim in a narrative where I had always seen myself as the heroine. The plan was my salvation, my catharsis, a way to sever the rot before it consumed me whole. Killing Dean, in theory, was not about ending his life; it was about reclaiming mine. It was about staring into the abyss of my own despair and choosing, instead, to rewrite the ending.

All this time I’ve thought Cade forgot everything we were but he was here living in those memories every day of his life. I want to believe every word he’s telling me. I want to hope that things aren’t really over between us, but I’m scared to have my heart broken again. When I left, I was vulnerable with him. I laid out every single one of my feelings, and he stomped on them. He crushed us. He crushed me. No matter what he says now, I can’t get over the fear of ending up in the exact same position as last time.

What Kant took to be the necessary schemata of reality,' says a modern Freudian, 'are really only the necessary schemata of repression.' And an experimental psychologist adds that 'a sense of time can only exist where there is submission to reality.' To see everything as out of mere succession is to behave like a man drugged or insane. Literature and history, as we know them, are not like that; they must submit, be repressed. It is characteristic of the stage we are now at, I think, that the question of how far this submission ought to go--or, to put it the other way, how far one may cultivate fictional patterns or paradigms--is one which is debated, under various forms, by existentialist philosophers, by novelists and anti-novelists, by all who condemn the myths of historiography. It is a debate of fundamental interest, I think, and I shall discuss it in my fifth talk. Certainly, it seems, there must, even when we have achieved a modern degree of clerical scepticism, be some submission to the fictive patterns. For one thing, a systematic submission of this kind is almost another way of describing what we call 'form.' 'An inter-connexion of parts all mutually implied'; a duration (rather than a space) organizing the moment in terms of the end, giving meaning to the interval between tick and tock because we humanly do not want it to be an indeterminate interval between the tick of birth and the tock of death. That is a way of speaking in temporal terms of literary form. One thinks again of the Bible: of a beginning and an end (denied by the physicist Aristotle to the world) but humanly acceptable (and allowed by him to plots). Revelation, which epitomizes the Bible, puts our fate into a book, and calls it the book of life, which is the holy city. Revelation answers the command, 'write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter'--'what is past and passing and to come'--and the command to make these things interdependent. Our novels do likewise. Biology and cultural adaptation require it; the End is a fact of life and a fact of the imagination, working out from the middle, the human crisis. As the theologians say, we 'live from the End,' even if the world should be endless. We need ends and kairoi and the pleroma, even now when the history of the world has so terribly and so untidily expanded its endless successiveness. We re-create the horizons we have abolished, the structures that have collapsed; and we do so in terms of the old patterns, adapting them to our new worlds. Ends, for example, become a matter of images, figures for what does not exist except humanly. Our stories must recognize mere successiveness but not be merely successive; Ulysses, for example, may be said to unite the irreducible chronos of Dublin with the irreducible kairoi of Homer. In the middest, we look for a fullness of time, for beginning, middle, and end in concord. For concord or consonance really is the root of the matter, even in a world which thinks it can only be a fiction. The theologians revive typology, and are followed by the literary critics. We seek to repeat the performance of the New Testament, a book which rewrites and requites another book and achieves harmony with it rather than questioning its truth. One of the seminal remarks of modern literary thought was Eliot's observation that in the timeless order of literature this process is continued. Thus we secularize the principle which recurs from the New Testament through Alexandrian allegory and Renaissance Neo-Platonism to our own time. We achieve our secular concords of past and present and future, modifying the past and allowing for the future without falsifying our own moment of crisis. We need, and provide, fictions of concord.

Like Willow, we all can honor our pain and then move toward something more joyful. We can focus on our resilience and remember our joys or sorrows. We can craft stories that tell us we are loved, strong, resilient, respected, worthy, generous, forgiven, and happy. We all have such stories if only we can uncover them.... To rewrite our story, we need effort and imagination. We can access imagination by journaling, painting, music, or art. One of my favorite things about writing is that I get to tell a second story about whatever happens to me. And, in this second story I can shape events in ways that are more beautiful and happiness-producing. Indeed, what is all art if not an attempt to tell a better story? Some of our stories bring out the best in us, whereas others induce despair, fear or anger. We can ask ourselves questions that remind us of our kindness, hard work, and strength over the years. We can explore our uncelebrated virtues and our survival skills.

I read a wonderful passage in an interview with Carolyn Chute, the author of The Beans of Egypt, Maine, who was discussing rewriting: “I feel like a lot of time my writing is like having about twenty boxes of Christmas decorations. But no tree. You’re going, Where do I put this? Then they go, Okay, you can have a tree, but we’ll blindfold you and you gotta cut it down with a spoon.” This is how I’ve arrived at my plots a number of times. I would have all these wonderful shiny bulbs, each self-contained with nothing to hang them on. But I would stay with the characters, caring for them, getting to know them better and better, suiting up each morning and working as hard as I could, and somehow, mysteriously, I would come to know what their story was. Over and over I feel as if my characters know who they are, and what happens to them, and where they have been and where they will go, and what they are capable of doing, but they need me to write it down for them because their handwriting is so bad. Some

I want to talk to you, and I want you to talk to me. I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me too. I want to hold you.” I gave up hiding the tears, and when I blinked they ran down my cheeks. “I won’t look for pain from another man’s fist to release me from what hurts so much in my head. I’ll tell you what hurts instead. I won’t use sex with other women to hide from my pain. But I’ll give it to you if it’s what you need from me.” I walked up to her, and she just watched me. Her body looked rigid with tension, and I could see the tendons in her neck strained tight. I stood just in front of her, not willing to touch her until she gave me permission. “I want all of you, regardless of the fact I deserve nothing from you. Things can’t go on this way with us. It’s tearing me apart. I put myself in your life, because I wanted to see who you were now.” I shook my head as I stared off beside us for a moment. “I didn’t realize it would be so … powerful. Powerful enough I want to give it the chance to rewrite the direction of my life.

end of the continuum are the ineffective people who transfer responsibility by blaming other people, events, or the environment—anything or anybody “out there” so that they are not responsible for results. If I blame you, in effect I have empowered you. I have given my power to your weakness. Then I can create evidence that supports my perception that you are the problem. At the upper end of the continuum toward increasing effectiveness is self-awareness: “I know my tendencies, I know the scripts or programs that are in me, but I am not those scripts. I can rewrite my scripts.” You are aware that you are the creative force of your life. You are not the victim of conditions or conditioning. You can choose your response to any situation, to any person. Between what happens to you and your response is a degree of freedom. And the more you exercise that freedom, the larger it will become. As you work in your circle of influence and exercise that freedom, gradually you will stop being a “hot reactor” (meaning there’s little separation between stimulus and response) and start being a cool, responsible chooser—no matter what your genetic makeup, no matter how you were raised, no matter what your childhood experiences were or what the environment is. In your freedom to choose your response lies the power to achieve growth and happiness.

Astonishment: these women’s military professions—medical assistant, sniper, machine gunner, commander of an antiaircraft gun, sapper—and now they are accountants, lab technicians, museum guides, teachers…Discrepancy of the roles—here and there. Their memories are as if not about themselves, but some other girls. Now they are surprised at themselves. Before my eyes history “humanizes” itself, becomes like ordinary life. Acquires a different lighting. I’ve happened upon extraordinary storytellers. There are pages in their lives that can rival the best pages of the classics. The person sees herself so clearly from above—from heaven, and from below—from the ground. Before her is the whole path—up and down—from angel to beast. Remembering is not a passionate or dispassionate retelling of a reality that is no more, but a new birth of the past, when time goes in reverse. Above all it is creativity. As they narrate, people create, they “write” their life. Sometimes they also “write up” or “rewrite.” Here you have to be vigilant. On your guard. At the same time pain melts and destroys any falsehood. The temperature is too high! Simple people—nurses, cooks, laundresses—behave more sincerely, I became convinced of that…They, how shall I put it exactly, draw the words out of themselves and not from newspapers and books they have read—not from others. But only from their own sufferings and experiences. The feelings and language of educated people, strange as it may be, are often more subject to the working of time. Its general encrypting. They are infected by secondary knowledge. By myths. Often I have to go for a long time, by various roundabout ways, in order to hear a story of a “woman’s,” not a “man’s” war: not about how we retreated, how we advanced, at which sector of the front…It takes not one meeting, but many sessions. Like a persistent portrait painter. I sit for a long time, sometimes a whole day, in an unknown house or apartment. We drink tea, try on the recently bought blouses, discuss hairstyles and recipes. Look at photos of the grandchildren together. And then…After a certain time, you never know when or why, suddenly comes this long-awaited moment, when the person departs from the canon—plaster and reinforced concrete, like our monuments—and goes on to herself. Into herself. Begins to remember not the war but her youth. A piece of her life…I must seize that moment. Not miss it! But often, after a long day, filled with words, facts, tears, only one phrase remains in my memory (but what a phrase!): “I was so young when I left for the front, I even grew during the war.” I keep it in my notebook, although I have dozens of yards of tape in my tape recorder. Four or five cassettes… What helps me? That we are used to living together. Communally. We are communal people. With us everything is in common—both happiness and tears. We know how to suffer and how to tell about our suffering. Suffering justifies our hard and ungainly life.

As the conference continued it occurred to me finally that it wasn't really about Indian history as it was written, but really about rewriting it by taking a fresh look at race, ethnicity, gender, and a mix of sociocultural questions... I just couldn't believe how far along the desi scene was, not just socially but intellectually, how many people were out there thinking about it. This whole event so far rocked my world, muddled me still more, and delivered a series of tiny epiphanies, all at the same time. To be honest, I was quite intimidated by the dialogue going on, as well as by the passion and conviction of these people on so many subjects which I, frankly, had never really even thought about. ...A history of a people in transit -- what could that be card catalogued under? And the history of the ABCD. Everyone seemed to know about this ABCD thing -- that didn't seem very confused to me! And it was a relatively new phenomenon; it had never occurred to me that things going on now could have a history already. The moments that made up my life in the present tense seemed so fleetingly urgent and self-contained to me: I'd always felt my life had very little to do with my parents' and especially their parents' histories...and that it would have very little effect on anything to come. But the way these people were talking -- about desis in Hollywood; South Asian Studies departments; the relatively new Asian Indian slot on the census -- was hummingly sculpting the air, as if they were making history as they spoke. Making it, messily but surely, even simply by speaking. I was feeling it, too -- a sense of history in the making. But where did I fit in to any of it? And how come no one had told me?

I seek to examine all factoids that led to personal despair by undertaking an Odyssey-like journey of the mind. I shall attempt to draw from the knowledge gleaned from all sources, and strictly examine crucial events of personal history not to rediscover what I already know, but to examine reminiscent occurrences under a new light of heightened consciousness, and in doing so rewrite my history and pen an enlightened future. Perhaps with resolute effort, I can recast a benighted nightmare into a bounteous prospect for joyful and a meaningful existence. I must undertake an arduous cognitive journey to discover what elusive substance provides purposefulness to living.

When I saw her! It was mid day, it was a sunny noon, When she passed through, I felt the shimmer of the moon, And for a moment I believed everything about her was true, Her eyes that radiated with the charm of the day, Her wavy arms that moved like the waves of calm and graceful sea, Her beautiful face that you would notice anyway, And when she passed by, you hoped this is what you would always and forever see, Her every step that led her somewhere, Made you forget your errands and just be with her, Wherever she went, just anywhere, And you imagined a life with her, only with her, And when she spoke to someone else, You cursed the skies for this prejudice, For in that moment you wanted to be this someone, and not anyone else, And you wanted to rewrite the fate’s treatise, So that whenever she talked, she only talked to you, Whenever she passed by someone in the street, She always passed staring at you, And wherever she went, it was just you she intended to meet, But right now, she just passed by and I saw her walk away, Until she had reached far, and become a distant star, And now I only keep gazing at the sky every night and day, And I deal with the never ending inner war, Where she still peeps through all my memories, Where she still makes me believe what I saw was true, And I feel like these helpless daisies, Who can do nothing, but just wait for the winter to pass and hope the sky will once again turn blue, So I am a flower that is rooted in its place and its faith, And I only grow in the field of her beauty, That is what my heart feels and that is what my mind always sayeth, For sometimes to love and to believe is the noblest duty! And I love her still although she is a star so distant, Rescued by my memories that form the only bridge, Between what I felt then , what I so long to feel now, ah it is a feeling so eminent, But I have to live with the star and its distance and volunteer myself for this daily emotional sacrilege! But then, living loving someone is a beautiful feeling, Maybe that is why daisies bloom every year, To witness the kiss of the summer, that magical thing, And for its sake bearing the pain of winter, seems nothing, every year, and every next year!

When I saw her! It was mid day, it was a sunny noon, When she passed through, I felt the shimmer of the moon, And for a moment I believed everything about her was true, Her eyes that radiated with the charm of the day, Her wavy arms that moved like the waves of calm and graceful sea, Her beautiful face that you would notice anyway, And when she passed by, you hoped this is what you would always and forever see, Her every step that led her somewhere, Made you forget your errands, because you only wished to be with her, Wherever she went, just anywhere, And you imagined a life with her, only with her, And when she spoke to someone else, You cursed the skies for this prejudice, For in that moment you wanted to be this someone, and not anyone else, And you wanted to rewrite the fate’s treatise, So that whenever she talked, she only talked to you, Whenever she passed by someone in the street, She first ogled at you, And felt the desire that you were the only one she wished to meet, But right now, she just passed by and I saw her walk away, Until she had reached far, and become a distant star, And now I only keep gazing at the sky every night and day, And I deal with the never ending inner war, Where she still peeps through all my memories, Where she still makes me believe what I saw, and felt in that moment was true, And it makes me feel like these helpless daisies, Who can do nothing, but just wait for the winter to pass and hope the sky will once again turn blue, So I am a flower that is rooted in its place and its faith, And I only grow in the field of her beauty, That is what my heart feels and that is what my mind always sayeth, For sometimes to love and to believe is the noblest duty! And I love her still although she is a star so distant, Rescued by my memories that form the only bridge, Between what I felt then, what I so long to feel now, ah it is a feeling so eminent, But I have to live with the star and its distance and volunteer myself for this daily emotional sacrilege! But then, living loving someone is a beautiful feeling, Maybe that is why daisies bloom every year, To witness the kiss of the summer, that magical thing, And for its sake bearing the pain of winter, seems nothing, every year, and every next year!

The sins of the father are visited upon future generations…” EXODUS 34:7 Oh, how I used to hate this verse. I once had a client tell me that she hated it, too. It made her think of an-impossible-to-please, vengeful god. A god she wanted no part of. I completely understood, because for a big part of my life, I agreed with her. But then one day, a different perspective on this controversial verse presented itself to me. One that I shared with my client. It’s one I would like to share with you, too. What if this verse is not some warning of wrath from a vengeful, punitive deity? What if this verse is not talking about something God does to us, but rather something we do to ourselves—and to each other? What if this verse is actually a compassionate, albeit cryptic, warning? Perhaps it is a rallying cry to get us to show up and own our crap; to heal and to grow, and to set future generations up to do the same. What if this verse is a plea from on High to recognize our choices can set off ripple effects that are far beyond our understanding and that our choices influence the future beyond what we are able to recognize in the tangible, relational realms. And what if this ominous, poetic warning is really pointing us toward something much more scientific and even holistic? What if it’s a proof-text that we are incapable of living compartmentalized lives—that every part of us is inextricably connected to the other, not only within our own lives, but in all the lives that lead up to our existence? What if the ripples set in motion by those who have gone before us cast destructive waves upon the present and have potential to reach into future generations, unless there is some intervention?

While I was at University, and afterward, I behaved in what seemed to me to be a logical manner. But now I realize that what I did was do things irrationally, and then after I would arrange the events in my mind so they seemed to follow some sort of reasonable path. That is not logic -- it is wishful thinking, and involves rewriting one's own history as one goes along. Life is not logical -- it just goes along happening, and the best anyone can do is try to deal with the present as well as they can.

All the endless unconnected desires clumsily bumped with my fear, exhausted to want anything on this long night, I was weary in the valley of the blue foggy sky. I had been endlessly grinding the ink down on the pages of my destiny trying to rewrite my fate. I took the pages out on every rainy night, allowing them to drench in the downpour of blessings, the black of the ink bled out like long tears of swan but wasn't able to erase the traces of my life. With each defeat, I licked my wounds and sank further into the downward spiral of life. Everything was blinded by the storm, my path engulfed in the rageful wind, and I was lost on a nameless journey.

Forgiveness, I’ve learned, is like a door. You can open yourself up to it or close yourself off from it at any time. We can’t rewrite history or change the outcome. Life is a series of choices. And we live in and with those choices we make. Alana takes a few steps inside, her tiny body swallowed up by the vastness of the room, and says, “Are you my dad?

The upside of culling people from my life is that my focus has become very clear. My vision has become razor sharp. I now work to see people, not as I’d rewrite them, but as they have written themselves. I see them for who they are. And for who I am with them. Because it’s not merely about surrounding myself with people who treat me well. It’s also about surrounding myself with people whose self-worth, self-respect and values inspire me to elevate my own behavior. People who require that I stay truthful and kind and not totally crazy. Not eating every single thing in sight. Not hiding. Not saying no. I want Ride or Dies who make me want to be a better person.

Augustus actually had his poets and scribes rewrite his mythic biography to fit his own agenda that included changing calendar years in order to substantiate his divinity." His face crinkled into a smile. "I'm not completely certain what my findings add up to yet. I can tell you I've found convincing evidence that there's a fundamental identification between Octavius Caesar Augustus and Christianity as we call it today. I've studied comparative religions all my life, but only recently come to the conclusion that the Emperor Augustus was a comparatist extraordinaire, albeit a thoroughly pragmatic one. He was a master of turning the common themes in the religions of the cultures he conquered to the service of his empire, and of his personal reputation. He based his own spiritual practices on the moral principles he encountered in all religions,

So I saw that there is nothing better for men than that they should be happy in their work, for that is what they are here for, and no one can bring them back to life to enjoy what will be in the future, so let them enjoy it now. —Ecclesiastes 3:22 (TLB) Recently, I learned that a book on friendship that I’d written with my best friend, Melanie, was rejected by a publisher who had been very positive about it for over two years. I was devastated. All those months and years of writing, rewriting, and then reworking it again…only to have it rejected in the end. I was ready to give up my career altogether, retire, and concentrate on biking, swimming, kayaking, and traveling. Then I read something my pen pal Oscar had written about his own retirement twenty-five years earlier. He wrote that in retirement we must have direction and purpose, accept change, remain curious and confident, communicate, and be committed. The longer I looked at his list, the more it spoke to me. Why, those are the very attributes I need to be a good writer, I thought. So I decided to buckle down and rework other unsold manuscripts I’d written over the years. Using Oscar’s plan of direction, purpose, confidence, and commitment helped me to stop telling people that I didn’t have any marketing genes and to keep busy rewriting and looking for different publishers. I may never sell all of my work, but I’m living a life filled with purpose. And I’m a whole lot happier in my semiretirement than if I was just playing every day, all day. Father, give me purpose in life whether it’s volunteer work, pursuing dreams, reworking an old career, or finding a new way to use the talents You’ve given me. —Patricia Lorenz Digging Deeper: Prv 16:9; Rom 12:3–8

See, when I was younger and life threw me lemons, I just made lemonade because I figured that’s what I was supposed to do. Not anymore. Now when those lemons come my way, I’ll be doing shots of tequila instead.

I HAVE ASKED FOR HELP FROM ALMOST ALL THE SO CALLED PEOPLE PARADING THEMSELVES TO BE SPELL CASTERS, AT THE END I WAS RIPPED OFF OF MY HARD EARNED MONEY WITHOUT ANY RESULT. TO THE EXTENT THAT I SAW SOME OF THEM REWRITING WHAT I WROTE ON ONLINE TO THANK AKPE OSILAMA.MOST OF THESE PEOPLE TELLING YOU FAKE TESTIMONIES AND FOR YOU TO BEWARE AND BE-WISE TO AVOID BEEN RIPPED OFF, YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE AT ONCE TO CONTACT THE ONLY REAL AND APPROVED SPELL CASTER IN THE WORLD CALLED AKPE OSILAMA. AS HE IS THE ONLY MAN YOU CAN ACTUALLY TRUST ON SPELLS I WOULD HAVE BROUGHT HIM RIGHT HERE IN THE STATES IF POSSIBLE. HE DID A WHOLE LOT OF THINGS WHICH I WON’T REALLY MENTION HERE BUT THE MOST OF WHAT HE DID FOR ME WAS HELP ME CURED OF MY CANCER,HELPED ME RESTORE BACK MY JOB AND MY LOST MARRIAGE.OH HE IS GREAT AND I MET HIM IN REAL TIMES IN HIS TEMPLE THAT WAS DIRECTED TO ME BY A CHINESE FRIEND OF MINE THAT FOLLOWED ME FOR A CONFERENCE MEETING IN AFRICA. I’M STILL VERY MUCH INDEBTED TO AKPE OSILAMA FOR SAVING MY LIFE AND MY MARRIAGE. I WANT TO LET YOU ALL KNOW THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO TRY ANYBODY ELSE EXCEPT THIS GREAT SPELL CASTER CALLED AKPE OSILAMA.HIS EMAIL CONTACT IS: CHIEFPRIESTAKPEOSILAMASPELLCAST@YAHOO.COM TO GET ANY DIFFICULTY YOU MIGHT FACING IN LIFE SOLVED.

The primary human endowments are 1) self-awareness or self-knowledge; 2) imagination and conscience; and 3) volition or willpower. The secondary endowments are 4) an abundance mentality; 5) courage and consideration; and 6) creativity. The seventh endowment is self-renewal. All are unique human endowments; animals don’t possess any of them. But they are all on a continuum of low to high levels. • Associated with Habit 1: Be Proactive is the endowment of self-knowledge or self-awareness—an ability to choose your response (response-ability). At the low end of the continuum are the ineffective people who transfer responsibility by blaming other people, events, or the environment—anything or anybody “out there” so that they are not responsible for results. If I blame you, in effect I have empowered you. I have given my power to your weakness. Then I can create evidence that supports my perception that you are the problem. At the upper end of the continuum toward increasing effectiveness is self-awareness: “I know my tendencies, I know the scripts or programs that are in me, but I am not those scripts. I can rewrite my scripts.” You are aware that you are the creative force of your life. You are not the victim of conditions or conditioning. You can choose your response to any situation, to any person. Between what happens to you and your response is a degree of freedom. And the more you exercise that freedom, the larger it will become. As you work in your circle of influence and exercise that freedom, gradually you will stop being a “hot reactor” (meaning there’s little separation between stimulus and response) and start being a cool, responsible chooser—no matter what your genetic makeup, no matter how you were raised, no matter what your childhood experiences were or what the environment is. In your freedom to choose your response lies the power to achieve growth and happiness.

God has spoken to me, without words, to my heart. He has told me that I am to rewrite the future and remind His people's faith and to help keep that faith alive attached with the Holy Bible to Him. God gave me the name Compton Gage. My earthly name is not important. My person is not part of the reminder. This is not an ordinary book, this is not a Bible. The materials of the Third Testament, was organized and re-written by me. I was given a good authority by God. BY GOD ONLY!

What is the most surprising thing you discovered while writing this book? For years I thought this story was for my friend, Anne, who lost the rest of her life story. It wasn’t until probably the fifth or sixth rewrite, absorbing all the life lessons and wisdom Annie encounters in so many ways, that I was the one feeling healed.

She is such a writer that she puts words in my mouth while I’m standing right here, rewriting life in real time, and no, she can’t do this to me, to us.

In general, entitled people fall into one of two traps in their relationships. Either they expect other people to take responsibility for their problems: “I wanted a nice relaxing weekend at home. You should have known that and canceled your plans.” Or they take on too much responsibility for other people’s problems: “She just lost her job again, but it’s probably my fault because I wasn’t as supportive of her as I could have been. I’m going to help her rewrite her résumé tomorrow.” Entitled people adopt these strategies in their relationships, as with everything, to help avoid accepting responsibility for their own problems. As a result, their relationships are fragile and fake, products of avoiding inner pain rather than embracing a genuine appreciation and adoration of their partner. This goes not just for romantic relationships, by the way, but also for family relationships and friendships. An overbearing mother may take responsibility for every problem in her children’s lives. Her own entitlement then encourages an entitlement in her children, as they grow up to believe other people should always be responsible for their problems.

Rewriting the narrative so as to make my life what I want it to be is the stuff of fiction penned by the hands of fools who have yet to realize that truth writes stories bigger than any eraser fiction can conjure up.

to people who admire their work and seek to emulate them. If you don’t get to see the notes, the rewrites, and the steps, it’s easy to look at a finished product and be under the illusion that it just came pouring out of someone’s head like that. People who are young, or still struggling, can get easily discouraged, because they can’t do it like they thought it was done. An artwork is a finished product, and it should be, but I always swore to myself that I would not hide my brushstrokes.

The journey of learning to see my identity and my past through a new lens, through God's perspective, was the beginning of true transformation in my life... I discovered that a person misses a lot when they grow up seeing family members through the distortion of dysfunction, anger, and pain.

Meditation made me sick. Meditation made me mad. Meditation made me sad. Meditation gave me hope. Meditation pointed toward a way. Meditation showed me not just how to live my life but also how to think about life itself.

There was no social ritual to indicate that I had undergone a major life event. No forty days of rest as after childbirth, no forty days of mourning after death. There was no symbolic act of closure. Like the divorce, the absence of closure would be a unique cross for me to bear.

Wedding vows, in any culture or language, speak of being together in sickness and in health. There is an assumption that you will receive love and thrive in the constant presence and support of the person with whom you are joined together in matrimony, no matter the weather or circumstance. By committing to spending your life together, you are promising one thing: to be around.

The story of my marriage and motherhood is not unusual: a life defined by a name, a name conferred by someone other than me. Most women I knew had taken on their husband’s name either at the time of the wedding or after the birth of their children. A few had retained their maiden name, with a handful agonizing over the decision.

The memorable days are few. Most days are a blur of chores and errands and activities that don’t really add up to anything significant. But there is value in savoring the simple joys that each day brings. There is power in being able to choose not just your home and its contents but how you see your life and its context.

With no step-by-step guidance or role models, I had stumbled and fallen and picked myself up. I had survived. I had thrived. All along, I had moved one day at a time, one considered step followed by another, one morning followed by another night. Each day had been an improvement from the day before.

Fire is an important component of Hindu traditions. From the sacred fire around which you walk during your wedding tot he final lighting of the funeral pyre, it occupies center stage at significant life events.

Change is gradual, like the seasons, and our bodies, like the inside-out change that my life had undergone since the divorce.

And then I feel clarity. Because nothing has ever been more clear in my life. Sutten has always been my home. It always will be. And no matter what living in Chicago has done for me, I don’t want to be here forever. And I can’t go another minute without being with the man I fell in love with as a teenager when he remembered my birthday and told me to make a wish. Everything falls into place. I know the ending of my book. I know what I need to do. There’s only one thing left to do.

She’s my Goldie. My sunshine. The light of my life.

I stare at her because I don’t know what to say. She’s everything I could’ve ever wanted in my life. There’s a thread that ties us together that is unexplainable, but also something so rare and precious that I’d put anything on the line to keep it—even if it meant moving wherever she wanted me to. Giving up whatever I had to in order to be with her.

In the same way I can always sense him, I can sense her. I can sense them. My eyes flutter shut as the wind delicately caresses my cheeks. Hi Mom. Hi Linda. In the middle of the marigolds, with Cade clinging to me, I know that Mom and Linda somehow, some way are here with us. They’re sharing the most special moment of my life with me. With both of us. Mom kept true to her promise. I may not be able to see her, but I feel her.

For a few short seconds, I remember why I gave her the nickname Goldie in the first place. Aside from it being a shortened version of her name, she always reminded me of the sun. She brought light into my life. And for right now, even if it’s only for a brief moment, she brings a little bit of light into a darkness.

When Cade brought me to this house the other day, I wasn’t ready to see it. My heart couldn’t take knowing he’d been here in Sutten building a life for himself—a life he hoped I’d be in—while I was miles and miles away believing he never loved me.

Now if only I could figure out my real life. The things about me that aren’t fiction. Starting with Cade and his intentions by giving me the hat. It’s clear he isn’t hiding the feelings he’s harbored all these years. He’s all but admitted that he wasn’t over me. That he didn’t feel like things were over between us.

I wish that Cade and I can figure this out together. I wish for this to be the best summer of my life. My biggest wish is that I get to keep him once this summer ends.

I love you. I’ve been in love with you my entire life, Cade Jennings. This summer was the best summer of my life because of you. And if you felt anything close to what I feel for you, you wouldn’t let us end this way.

Cade,” I mutter, not knowing what else there is to say. He was the first man I was ever with—the only one I’ve ever loved. I would’ve spent the rest of my life with only ever having him and only him. It was him that made the decision to ruin everything we could’ve been.

She began to think of TVland as, not just a condensed electronic image or ghost of Reality, but a mask that had undergone considerable editing and rewriting to suit those in charge of Reality Selection for the whole society in which the TV existed. She realized that what the TV showed did not represent a simple Xerox of the Real World but a complicated social “game” — or tacit conspiracy — to pretend a certain set of programs contained all of the Real World.

Organize Reread your five freewriting entries (or mentally revisit them if you burned them) and your nine surprise visit entries. Underline what stands out to you, using it to create a personal sketch as I've done on the previous pages. It's for your eyes only. Be candid. At the end of each sketch, write at least two sentences speculating how you could use what you've discovered as either a character trait or a plotline in your novel, similar to what I've done in my Step Three example. Don't worry if you're vague at this point. Each exercise in this book builds on the one before it, so you'll be guided toward how to develop your novel at each step in the process.

Philosopher Bertrand Russell said, ‘Language sometimes conceals the complexity of a belief.’ Language also sometimes reveals basic truths. Through the time consuming task of writing one word after another and linking language to thought, I shall tell my sordid tale with the goal of plotting an acceptable thematic purposefulness to a life already half-lived. I will attempt to ferret out the hidden self and through an act of will alter my life course. The following chapters relate the culture that birthed me, the family that raised me, the educational system that tested me, the social affairs that shaped me, the friends and lovers that scorned me, the legal profession that rebuked me, and my personal quest to rewrite the construction of a loathsome self-image. How this scaled adventure will end, no one knows, but if any of us knew how our lives would actually unfold, how many of us would say ‘yes’ to all that is. Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘Be the change you wish to see in the world.’ My goal is to employ human free will to attempt to recast my fundamental character and develop the courage and mental equanimity to accept whatever will be – accept a largely deterministic world – while still making the most of my imitable human gifts to imbue this life sojourn with purposeful and evocative experiences of a compassionate and charitable human being.

The light at the end of this seemingly never-ending dark tunnel that I had entered, was on the other side of understanding. The clarity I was seeking was within my reach.

I could reassemble my life by picking up only those pieces that I wanted. There were no guarantees, but there was peace in knowing that I would be able to face the next detour when it arrived.

The only way I could manage the unsettling present was to hold on to those aspects of my former life that had held me steady in the past.

I needed to move, but I also needed time—time to find my new rhythm in this place and in this phase of life.