In the structure of a classic story, the leading character, or protagonist, faces a life-changing event that disrupts their entire existence. Commonly referred to as “the point of attack” or “inciting incident,” this catastrophic event shatters their day-to-day life existence and pulverizes everything they thought they knew to be true. It is the sudden and unexpected loss of a loved one, or the unfortunate news there is a bomb on the bus. It is the point of no return and the moment in which the character realizes things will, and never can, be the same. Generally, as far as good storytelling goes, the bigger the stakes are for the hero – the better the drama will be that unfolds.
In my life story, I have been the catalyst to and unwilling subject of a number of inciting incidents. In 2004, I came out to my friends and family. After that, my life was never the same (and thank heavens for that). In 2008, my first love lost his job and fled the province in less than three weeks. After that my life smelled like premium gin. More recently, last June I pulled up the rug from under my feet and moved to the West Coast. Naively, I believed that with one direct flight on West Jet my life would magically fall in place. Oh Seany. I should’ve known when my moving truck arrived three weeks late that this change was not going to be as easy one.
As far as I am concerned, the last summer and 12 months preceding it living in Winnipeg are a complete blur. This is generally the case when one’s life is a train wreck. Flying by the seat of my pants and the available credit on my VISA card, I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. Now that the dust has finally settled (for the time being at least) I feel I can finally begin to sort through some of the pieces from the wreckage. Care to join?
— Before I type any farther though, I must state for official blog purposes that each entry on this site will be no more than 500 words (give or take 16). This is in part because of the content. I am writing you a story that has no beginning, middle or end. It is not an advice column, shopping guide or journal of what I did in the past 24 hours. It is a journey – or rather a glimpse into one – and just like you, I have no clue where the heck it is going. And so, to save myself from writing entries that are 5,000 words long and you from yawning at the very thought of actually having to read them, I have set this limit.
It is interesting, but my greatest fear moving to Vancouver was not whether or not I would find a job, make friends or miss my friends and family – it was the moment I stepped off the airplane with no one to meet me on the other side. For weeks leading up to my departure, this fear consumed me. It kept me at the bar way past last call and woke me up the next morning with a raging headache and no clue how I got home. I knew why I was afraid. I was terrified because to me, the moment I got off that flight, signified the official moment in which I would be alone.
I am still trying to solve the mystery as to why I this fear haunted me so. Obviously, my trepidation crumbled as soon as I arrived in the baggage terminal, and turned on my cell phone to receive six text messages from friends and a friendly phone call from my father. But I promise I will return to the subject as soon as I have the proper words to do so (674).
*Alright so I totally broke my 500 word rule two paragraphs after I set it. How about we make it more of a guideline then a rule; rule is such a big word anyways.
Being alone is a scary feeling. My first night in my empty apartment was the loneliest time in my life. I remember waking up on the floor in my empty room, which seems 1 million times larger than it actually was. I guess most of it was the fear of change and not knowing how I would adapt to it.