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Maybe you’re familiar with the idea that there are only three story lines in the world. That every story has been written before you, or at the very least someone has thought of it, put it in a picture, told it at a fire, filmed it, danced to it, or maybe even wrote it on a piece of toilet paper that was later stuck to their shoe and drowned out in the rain.

I’m not sure if you believe in this, but I do.

I’ve talked to people about this before–ultimately, their response is that it can’t be true, that this is impossible. That they will lose hope if this is true.

I think people underestimate the ability of these stories.

There are three story arcs for a reason. They work. They’re heartbreaking or uplifting, they make you want to sleep forever or conquer the world.

Well, all depending on how you write them.

That’s the key, to me.

I was watching a movie a few weeks ago–I won’t tell you which one so that I don’t spoil the story I want to write–and I was astounded. Here was a movie that I didn’t even know existed, that I recorded on the DVR because it was free. That I figured would be entertaining enough if I was mellow enough to watch something like it.

Then it started. And while there were key differences, the idea was the very same idea I have written down in my idea journal. Let’s call it donating one life to save tens or hundreds.

At first I thought, “Well, now I can’t write it.”

Shame on you! How dare I think such a thing!

Blasphemy.

I could make it different, I could make it mine. With my thoughts and feelings and style. With my attention to detail, not theirs. With my piece of a soul poured into it, for good or for bad.

So I’ll write it, and it will be OK. Another notch in one of the three story types in the world.

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I want to get back to writing on here, get back to doing something for myself. To writing, to editing something other than manuals and nonsense for 45+ hours every week. To not sit in front of the TV for so long, for the exercise to make a difference, for the drinks to disappear from the house.

I may have mentioned that I got a new job. That I enjoy the job, but it’s a lot of work. That I got a new Jeep, though it’s old and breaks down a bit, but it gets you from point A to B and I like wearing my Jeep hair (I’ll post a picture sometime).

Well, a few other things have happened. I listened to some Spanish music a week ago and my soul woke up. I read a book that I fell in love with. I’m planning on going to a drinking fest this weekend.

My uncle passed away, I need friends that live close, if I never talk to my mother again a heavy weight will lift from my shoulders.

I know this isn’t something I was going to do, to you, to any reader that might be sneaking around. This isn’t my place to vent, and it’s not, but I might share a bit.

I’m not sure what of my past is true, from when I was a kid. I know that my mother left my biological father, but I can’t remember how or when. I want to say he pulled a knife on her at some point, but I can’t remember if that’s a story she told me or something I put in a story. Or if it happened in her mind or in reality–the two aren’t always the same.

I remember that my grandmother smelled of lipstick and felt like powder but I don’t remember her voice. I know that I would have liked to have really met her, that I miss a person that I realize now I never knew, but who loved me. But I’ve heard she was wonderful–these are from reliable sources.

These are things I know:

My mother worked at a restaurant called Fireside when I was a kid and sometimes she would take me with her; I would eat maraschino cherries from the bar. My grandmother hated the ICC and it’s ingrained in my blood to hate it, too; her green beans were from a can and soggy. My biological father took me to bars with him; he dated a woman who lived in a house with fish statues around the pool. My uncle gave me toys when I behaved; my uncle was a drunk.

So now I’m back to the start.

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