What if the reason writers like to write happy endings is because in reality, unbeknownst to them, they are actually writing about their other lives, the other threads upon which their soul (that infinite reservoir of memory) dances. Parallel universes. Infinite life. Which means that somewhere I am Eleanor in Mexico and it's 1848, or I am Dara on AlNair, Katherine in Tombstone, Lucy on the throne, Nineve in search of her brother, Arlen trying to live up to a memory, Gwynne trying to survive, or Lyra and Phaedra, sisters...
Maybe that's my reluctance in writing the stories that don't end well; I don't want to end up there - except that they're in my mind, those bad endings, haunting me. And I suspect if I have a soul it knows (though it seldom chooses to tread along those dark paths), that it is these lives that will teach the most. Is it any wonder Evolution is a long process?
just a thought. honestly, I have no idea how it all works.
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