What is a novelist? A million different voices that come from one heart. Opinions both opposite and identical to the author’s are masked in characters who live and walk upon the pages. When the voice changes, and becomes the author’s voice, how strange is it to hear a story lived? a death escaped?
How strange then, when someone you thought was pretty and confident and friendly reveals darkness – not of a character, but of herself? Confesses to the trauma of a near-death experience rarely remembered? And suddenly, conversations about how it’s okay to not be okay, a shared self-deprecating humor, work shifts spent talking about why we love the fictional characters we do, are seen in a completely different light.
I wish I could share the essay. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. But I can’t. It’s her story.
I’m left questioning now. Are those things that hide behind everyone’s eyes, and I just never take the time to look?