I’ve got this idea where if I could be anyone, I would be John McClane or Indiana Jones. But I don’t have a fedora or a whipâ€¦or muscles for that matter. Just the fingers of a Jazz pianist from all this typing.
I’m only a writer. But I spend my days imagining car crashes, mysterious assassins, natural disasters, damsels in distress, flesh-eating zombies, and me: an unwilling, average man, thrust into the role of a hero.Â All the elements are there. A near perfect story full of action, suspense, romance, and a zombie apocalypse. I wonder how I would handle it all, and if I could even handle it at all.
My arsenal consists only of John McClane’s sarcasm, and only a third of the witty one-liners of Dr. Jones. These are the weapons most often bestowed upon writers. But sarcasm never killed any Nazis.
Why do I find myself daydreaming about these characters and scenes, putting myself in their shoes? Is it because my life isn’t exciting enough? Am I not living a good enough story?
Are you happy with the story you’ve been given?