I once thought that bad things had to happen to me in order for me to write. Like I wasn’t qualified to tell a story, or share my own story, if I hadn’t endured some kind of trauma. But that begs the question – why?
Why are we so consumed with tragedy?
Shakespeare wrote 10 tragedies and 17 comedies.
I love Shakespearean tragedies. I would have thought there were more tragedies than comedies … but let’s be clear, the only true difference between the two are the number of deaths in the end. They all entail deceit, love triangles, mistaken identities, twists of fate and bloodshed. What’s not to love?
A very very fine line between tragedy and comedy…
So why do I feel like I’m not qualified to write simply because I’m a white middle class Presbyterian? Can only people relate to my words if I’ve been mistreated, misunderstood, unloved?
I hope not, because I am dying to tell them. In fact, they are currently forming mini armies within my gut and are staging a full on coup.
The truth. As I see it. Comedy or Tragedy, that is the question.
Or maybe the question is, do you want to read it?
If so, come along for the ride…