What’s real life, and who decides?

Quite a few years ago, I finally stopped writing about myself in my novels — a sure sign that I was ready to publish. However, there is one scene in Rival Poet where Will’s thoughts directly echo mine, and that is in the pub after his success with Henry VI. The news that Spain has been beaten reaches them, and everyone celebrates – everyone except Will, because he’s already thinking about how to turn the whole thing into a play. The eternal observer, he has a moment of self-observation, where he wonders why he can’t participate in the carousing like the others do.

This is me. That’s my identity as a writer, even as a human being. I observe from my corner, and then I write. Most of the time I’m happy to be that person, but sometimes I, like Will, stop to wonder why I’m always on the outside, documenting life rather than taking part in it.

But then I wonder: who decided that observing isn’t participating? I consider my writing to be part of my life, not some kind of extracurricular activity that takes place outside time and space. I process things through the written word, and when I think or feel something, I turn to my keyboard. Is that a bad thing? Would I be better off drinking and talking?

I think it has to do with how we view reality. You often hear that school isn’t real life – even that it’s the opposite of real life – but come on. School is a part of life, a very big part. One that the majority of people in my country goes through, which makes it a culturally shared experience. So why dismiss 10+ years of people’s formative years as somehow less real than the rest? If someone dies at fifteen, did they never live at all?

In a way, it’s the same kind of attitude that views pain as more real than happiness: if someone seems rich and sheltered, they haven’t experienced Real Life. If someone had a happy childhood, they haven’t experienced Real Life. Actually, the worse your life is, the more real it is.

But the world is made up of many different things, good and bad, and nothing is inherently more real than anything else – unless you want to make some kind of weird philosophical argument. Some people have a hard life and others have more luck. Some people observe while others throw themselves from bungy lines.

It’s life. Why waste time on telling others that they’re living it wrong?