Not much I can do about other people’s meanings, intentions, opinions. Is this one being sarcastic? Is that one pulling my leg? Is so-and-so to be trusted? Etc. I wish I had time to spare on the exquisite distinctions from a purely imaginary level. What if I tweak this or change that: one of the fun aspects of writing, but something for which real life does not allow much space.
In real life, for real people I know and care about, the administrative steam roller is on the move. Any day now, and at any time, their hopes can be dashed to pieces and their lives sent spinning into more confusion and circumstances even more painful than the ones they must endure now. All the work done by others in support of those hopes may come to nothing except a good deal of heartbreak. This is the reality at the moment, outside whatever time I spend on fiction I hope to make as meaningful as possible.
Whether people care about the fiction or not; whether it makes them laugh at me or not, dismiss me or like me, matters. I’m human. I enjoy being appreciated and understood. But I’m glad that I don’t have much time to delve on “I wonder what he or she meant by that”.
Real life. Real consequences. Real good times and bad. If the fiction can convey some of that, hurray. Priority goes to the real people. What others make of my choices in that regard is their business. It’s great when I can count on real support and it hurts when I thought I could and the support isn’t there or doesn’t hold when I expect it, but them’s the breaks.
As the fourteen-year old girl said to me while we waited for her father to come home: “Life is too hard.” I had to agree: sometimes, it’s way too hard. Sometimes, sometimes, it isn’t.