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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.
“Rom-coms are about falling in love.”
“I know that.” “And falling in love is about having feelings.” “I don’t disagree.” “And you can’t write about feelings—or help the audience feel them—if you can’t feel them yourself.”
my earthquake had settled,
He’s a full-grown adult. I can’t just Jedi-mind-trick him into doing whatever I want.”
“I believe hormones exist,” Charlie said then. “And I believe kindness exists. And affection. And altruism, sometimes. And longing. And I believe that every now and then those things can show up at once and knock you out of your senses for a while. But it’s random. It’s like the weather. It’s not something we all should be aspiring to. Or counting on. It comes and it goes, whether you like it or not.
The most vital thing you can learn to do is tell your own story”—was
How stomach-turning must you be for a man to take up arms against you?
“I get it now.”
“Get what?” I asked. Charlie met my eyes. “Why we’re rewriting this story.”
“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”
“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.”
Don’t like people who don’t like you.
Humanity at its worst is an easy story to tell—but it’s not the only story. Because the more we can imagine our better selves, the more we can become them.”
“Well, you’re lucky. Because love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It’s something you can choose to get good at. And here’s how you do it.” He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: “Appreciate your person.”
