I find humans to be fascinating creatures. No two are completely alike, even if they’re identical twins. Each one is shaped by different life experience. Every single one dresses differently, looks unique, reacts to things in his or her own special way. To paraphrase Forrest Gump, people are like boxes of chocolate. You never know what you’re gonna get.
I have a theory that if I’m finding someone to be boring, either they have an overactive sense of privacy, or I’m not being properly inquisitive. I’m convinced that everyone has at least one story within them. In that way people seem like gifts to me, just waiting to be unwrapped.
More than once in my life I’ve discovered that I had been working closely with someone who had quite an amazing private life, but that fact was only revealed to me after they had left the job or passed away. After getting over the shock of the information, I’m usually left with a sense of profound disappointment and a boatload of unanswered questions. I’ve always had a hard time accepting the fact that not everything is my business.
Writers should be grateful that their talent isn’t universal, or the world would be inundated with autobiographies and they’d be out of a job. But having a story and being able to tell it are two very different things. Then again, I have to remind myself that not everyone wants to tell their story. That’s so foreign to my nature as to be incomprehensible. I suppose that’s why I’m a blogger.
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