Two things have been happening in my life lately.
One, I’ve been fixing the protagonist of my book. She was wishy-washy, scared, bitter. I had to change her into someone worthy of the story, worthy of the reader’s empathy: someone courageous and battered but caring. Someone the reader would want to follow.
Two, I’ve been looking at me.
I asked myself the question a week ago, Would I like myself if I was a book character? If I was reading my life, would I stick with my story, or would I give up, because I didn’t trust the character of Me to get me to the ending?
I don’t think I’d get Me to the ending.
I’ve been hanging back, scared, of so much. I’ve been bitter and selfish and small. I am NOT a book character I would follow. I am not a protagonist. Not now.
But the beauty of every story is that the hero rises to the height of the antagonist. If your challenge is daunting, you will be become that much more dauntless. However high the mountain you must scale, you will become that much braver. Every protagonist, in rising to surmount their obstacle, becomes greater than that obstacle.
The bigger the fears that I must face, the bigger I will be on the other side.