Story of Life

I really enjoy surprise parties. If one is pulled off, it is one of my greatest joys. It's hard to throw me a surprise party. One, most of my friends have a hard time keeping a secret. But, the most difficult thing is that I am astutely observant. If there is the slightest hint of a plot, I can usually sniff it out. Which is a shame, because then it is not a surprise party and then everyone, guests and myself included, are disappointed.

This is not so unlike Christmas or any other time when gifts are exchanged. Children and loved ones poke and prod to find out what they will receive. I don't think this is to ruin the joy of astonishment in reception, but rather a fear of an unknown thing that is coming their way, as certain as the grave (or taxes). I once went snooping under my parents' bed in early December when I was a child. There I found a new skateboard that would be mine in a few weeks time. But, there was no pride or sense of accomplishment, but a fear and a shame that I had some how broken the trust or faith of Christmas. That Christmas morning, I received a good many other gifts along with the skateboard, but I took no joy in the skateboard. I don't know if it was that I didn't want it or that I knew the gift before it was given.

Similarly, I have the curse of picking up on forshadowed events in literature. As I read the words on the page, I can, in a well-written piece, feel the pain of the characters, smell their skin, and hear their voice. The words take on a weight and darken against the font previously used. The sorrow in the forthcoming pages broods and gathers like low-hanging clouds before a storm. I hate when I figure out the forshadows, especially when they first appear. If you figure the plot one or two pages before it happens you're only sad for five minutes or so while the characters rush towards certain doom and you're screaming at the parchment and ink to stop them in futility.

Regardless of the story, none of the characters stop and say, "Hey don't you feel like we're doomed to live out this story. You know, like our futures are already written." I guess that's what I hate about my story. I can't feel the forshadowing that may be gathering in my skies. Not to say that all future is gloom and doom, but it would be nice to know where I'm going. Perhaps, someone is screaming at my story to go here and say this, do that. But, like gifts at Christmas, the joy is not in finding out the future, but enjoying the thrill of astonishment when it comes, and looking back on the crooked trail that brought you straight to where you need to be.