The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

You had to maximize joy when it fluttered into your life. You had to honor it. And savor it. And not stomp it to death by reminding everyone of everything you’d lost.

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.

Bearing witness to the suffering of others? I don’t know if there’s anything kinder than that. And kindness is a form of emotional courage. And I’m not sure if this is common knowledge, but emotional courage is its own reward.

“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”

“You want to know why you shouldn’t be worried right now?” “Why?” “Because the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.” I took that in. “It’s always some other bad thing you’re not expecting. Right? So the fact that you’re worried we’re going to plunge to our deaths off the side of this road means that there’ll definitely be an earthquake instead. Or a drone strike. Or Godzilla.”

“You can’t accost Donna Cole in a coffee shop, Emma. That’s not how that works.” “I couldn’t do nothing,” I said. “Yes, you could.” “I had to take a shot,” I said. “But that’s not how it’s done.” “It’s not how it’s done for you,” I said. “You’re famous, and dashing, and beloved.”

“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.” “Oh,” I said, looking back down. “That’s very nice of you.” “And I’ve met”—and here, less lucid, he made a big, drunk gesture—“everybody. In the world. And you’re my favorite. Out of all seven billion.” What did words like that mean coming from a person in this state? I had no idea. “How crazy is that?” Charlie asked, leaning closer to study my face, like he might find the answer there. “I’ve known you six weeks, and I already can’t imagine my life without you.” “Six weeks can be a long time,” I said.

“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.”

“Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.”

If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.

“Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.”

“There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.”

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.