My parents sat me down to tell me the news. The one about your own life, complete with melodramatic soundtrack and golden light lancing through car windows. You just can’t stop telling yourself the story. Or maybe, like me, you’re a hopeless romantic. Maybe your fatal flaw is that you don’t use turn signals. Only now, upon realizing you didn’t get what you didn’t know you wanted, you’re barreling down the highway in a midlife-crisis-mobile with a suitcase full of cash and a man named Stan in your trunk. So, to avoid disappointment, you learned never to ask yourself what you truly wanted. Maybe, for example, you didn’t have much control over your life as a kid. Or at least that makes it easier for me when I’m writing-building my heroines and heroes up around this one self-sabotaging trait, hinging everything that happens to them on a specific characteristic: the thing they learned to do to protect themselves and can’t let go of, even when it stops serving them.
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