Here's a story. "I was in the pub last night and there was this foreign bloke, loud and aggressive, you know, talking about the Brits and telling everyone what a bunch of idiots they are over Brexit and all that."
As it stands, this is not a very interesting story. But suppose I add the following.
"Well, I really let him have it. Told him what a twat he was and that if he didn't like us he should go back where he came from." Or if not that, then this, perhaps, "I just let him talk. I had heard it all before."
Both of those comments add a side to the story that wasn’t there before. Now, the story has become a story about me, my values or how I see myself. The first comments suggests that I see myself as a person that others cannot mess around with. The second comment suggests that I am a man of the world, tolerant and thoughtful.
Many of our stories about ourselves do this. We tell stories that make us seem adventurous, or funny, or strong. We tell stories that make our lives seem interesting. And we tell these stories not only to others, but also to ourselves. And not only do we tell them in pubs or restaurants we also put them on Facebook. "Look at me," the post says, "what a wonderful life I have." Sometimes we even come to believe it ourselves.
Of course, these stories and self-deceptions are a wonderful source of inspiration. Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice holds on to her initial impression of Darcy despite being shown considerable evidence to the contrary. Gatsby in The Great Gatsby is certain that Daisy will leave her husband. He invents reasons, most of which are untrue, but that makes no difference to him. Madame Bovary deceives herself about…well, the course of her entire life, really. And what about James Thurber's super short story, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty?
Have a look at the picture here. It shows two young men, and a young Danish woman called Anita, in Ibiza in 1969. Suppose, 50 years later, the chap on the right tells a story about how he was a little bit in love with Anita and that after the holiday and back home he would daydream about donning his white Aran sweater and sailing a boat across the North Sea, battling storms and all sorts of other problems, to find her waiting for him on the quayside in some Danish port. As he steps ashore, battered but strong, and beaming his love for her, she falls into his arms and his soft woollen pullover...
Sounds a bit Walter Mitty-ish, doesn't it? "Not necessarily," the chap on the right might say. "But I could write a book about it."
Maybe, he is right. After all, isn't the ability to lose yourself in daydreams a necessity for fiction writers? Personally, I think it is fine to daydream so long as your feet are very firmly set on the ground. Ready, steady - dream away!
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