In other words, I’m writing a novel.
A group of humans I had never met before showed up on my doorstep one day. I opened the door, surprised by the knock (why didn’t they just ring the bell?), and without so much as a kind hello they pushed past me and immediately made my home theirs.
Mind you, they weren’t rude, at least, not in the sense that I felt uncomfortable having them there. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the first time this had happened. I don’t know — I guess I just attract
After a while, we started talking. I figured, if they’re going to invite themselves in and crash on my couch until further notice, I might as well be polite. Get to know them a little. Feed them some snacks. Learn what they’re doing here, why they’re in my living room, what I’m supposed to do about it.
How to get them to leave.
They shared pieces of their lives with me one by one. Their likes, their dislikes, their wants, their fears. Very quickly I found myself actually starting to like them. They were interesting. Funny. Relatable.
But I still wasn’t sure I wanted them, you know, in my house. Taking up my space. Still not telling me what their purpose for existing was.
So eventually I decided I needed to face the truth. I could continue to be polite and give them these still mostly strangers a place to stay and plenty of food and someone to talk to, but at some point I was going to want my life back. And that would require knowing why they had shown up in the first place.
I promised myself one thing: If they told me their reason for coming here, I had to try to help them. It was, I felt, the least I could do.
“What do you want?” I inquired with genuine curiosity. “What can I do so you’ll go away and leave me alone?”
Blunt, but to the point. They seemed fine with that.
“We want you to tell our story,” they said.
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