IF MY LIFE WAS A NOVEL . . .
If my life was a novel, then I would not have to worry about experiencing the uneventful and tiresome details. Notice how the chapter ends, in a novel, just when the protagonist is about to experience tedious details. The next chapter begins with these details over. Between the space at the end of the chapter and the beginning of the next, the protagonist lived through the uneventful. Reading about he or she doing so would grind the story to a halt. The next chapter advances the plot with some exciting, meaningful experience, and no tiresome details.
How often has my life been ground to a halt because I could not skip the uneventful? I know that my attitude is the problem. If I approached life with the wonder of a child, then nothing would be tiresome and everything an adventure. I like to lead people to believe I live this way all the time, but I do not. Sometimes I am not quick to get up when I get knocked down. I stay down and mope.
It is when I am moping that I wish that my life was a novel. Finding the strength to change my attitude and get up would not be a problem. The author would do it for me. The author would pick me up, between chapters, by sparing me the colorless, blah, bland, boring, dull, dreary, dry, ho-hum, humdrum, mundane, monotonous, mind-numbing, soul-destroying, stale, tedious, tiresome, uninteresting, uninspiring, unexciting, details of my life. And all of us would live happily ever after.