Some days I want to be around real people, people who love who they are and have no urge to become someone else, someone others say they should be. They are the people who move from apartments in high-rise buildings near trendy restaurants to mobile homes in the desert, where the nearest grocery store is ninety miles away. They are the ones who laugh off derisive comments about their poverty and lifestyle, recognizing them as ignorance or envy.
When I am around real people, I understand just how far I have to go to become one.
Last night, I heard a retired Air Force flight surgeon tell tales from his life, all of which he recorded in a book he published about four years ago. He is one of the real people, though he’s not one who lives in a mobile home in the desert. I don’t know him well enough to say this with certainty, you understand, by my gut says it’s so.
If you write your story, the real story; if you write it from your heart and push through the pain that’s bound to arise from telling it, you’ll be a real person. I just know it. In my gut.