It rained here on the Central Coast last month. In June. And it rained here just this week. In July. It hasn’t rained in June or July for twenty years, not since 1991.
I was stunned. Twenty years? What was California like back then? I wondered. Then I started thinking about what I was doing twenty years ago.
I was married, with a fifteen-year-old computer genius son. A husband who worked long corporate hours. And I was a part-time test examiner for the state. A fairly normal, fairly unremarkable life. Not much to write home about. Or was it?
Then I asked myself: What if...
What if I met a man on the bus and had an affair? What if my son hacked into the Federal Reserve and set up bogus accounts in our names? What if terrorists invaded the state office building where I worked and took our room hostage? What if one day my husband went to work and never came home again?
My mind began spinning with possibilities. Some pretty far-fetched, yes, but others viable, even interesting. I’d never before looked at my life as being worthwhile fodder for my writing. It was too normal, too dull. But suddenly whole new vistas opened up. Like rain after twenty years.
Consider this: If all the world’s a stage, then all your life’s a plot.
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