"I keep starting over. I don't like where my story is going so I try to erase and keep going, but I collect people. Like other people collect shot glasses I guess," I sputter.
"What don't you like about your story?" He whispers.
"That there isn't one. Nothing of note, nothing worthy reading. I keep waiting for it to start, for something to happen," I admit.
"If you could have anything, put anything in your story, what would it be? What would you add to it?" he asks.
My mind flies with the possibilities. My face appearing in so many novels and movies I have loved, but that's not right. That's not what I want.
"You can't choose your story. That takes away half the excitement, the thrill. I just want to feel like I'm living, leaving my mark on something, someone," I sigh.
I know it doesn't make sense. I can't ask for adventure and refuse to choose what it would be.
And yet that's exactly what I want.