(No. 6) This is the story where I am the hero
On choosing your own adventure when the bad guys close in
If someone were to write my life as a fiction book sleeve synopsis, I imagine it would begin like this:
Rachel, a thirty-something PhD graduate, recently left her comfortable life in academia to pursue her dream of becoming an independent writer and filmmaker. But without a steady income or the ability to sign a new lease on a flat—and student debt payments looming over her—she must make a life-changing decision. Does she pursue her dream to live as a creative, risking debt and homelessness to get there? Or does she accept a life of mundane work, realizing that even though life isn’t as big and beautiful and full of possibilities as she was promised as a kid, it is no less meaningful than she had imagined?
It sounds overly dramatic, but life often feels even more dramatic than I’m willing to admit on the page.
Lately I’ve been framing the debate about whether to apply for a job I don’t want as if I were a protagonist in a fictional story. The job itself isn’t as important as knowing that it would pay the bills (and then some), make use of my PhD, and would fall somewhere in the middle on a scale of world-saving to world-destroying. Haters would tell you that I’m imagining myself as the protagonist of a novel because I’m a self-centered snowflake like the rest of my generation. (To that I would say: if I’m not the main character in my own life, then when will I get to play the main character?) But I would also hold up my copy of Save the Cat! Writes a Novel, by Jessica Brody (based on the original by Blake Snyder), one of the most well-known books on how to write fiction, which is currently resting face open on my bed.
The basic idea in Brody’s book is that in most stories, a hero goes on a journey from pursuing their wants to realizing their needs, which happens over a three-act story structure. In Act 1, the hero has a Big Problem (even better: lots of problems). In Act 2, the hero tries to solve their Big Problem, but because they’re still pursuing their wants without realizing their needs, they cannot succeed. Finally, in Act 3, the hero takes what they’ve learned from Act 1 and Act 2 to defeat the bad guys, overcome their Big Problem, and emerge as a hero transformed. They either achieve what they wanted in the first place, or, having realized their needs, have new wants altogether. The theme emerges from the hero’s character arc.
Lately, it’s been feeling like the world is pushing me towards a character arc of acceptance: towards the storyline where I must come to terms with finding meaning in a life spent doing work I don’t want. In this story, I’m the protagonist floundering in Act 2, mistakenly pursuing an unconventional and creative life, who still needs to learn to find the beauty in the mundane rather than chase the unreachable, which will ultimately end in ruin—even death.
Rachel must find the grace in capitulation, the strength in resignation. She must accept the limitations imposed on her life and find moments of connection, of meaning, of purpose in the inevitable 9-to-5 grind. Pursuing dreams ends in ruin. Accepting reality ends in safety.
(Enter the Greek tragedy chorus, ‘Dreams will end in ruin / She is running towards ruin / Don’t say we didn’t warn her.’)
This narrator is everywhere.
Sometimes it’s in the encouragement of family and friends to apply for the job you don’t want (just in case you can’t make it how you want to). Sometimes it’s in the outright laughter of someone you thought believed in you but didn’t (you can’t just write books or make movies, Rachel, you actually have to have something to say, the mean boy said). Sometimes it’s the silence of a mentor you’ve shared your dreams with. Sometimes it’s the letting agent saying you need a fixed salary to sign a flat (because freelancing is dangerous) or the loan payment calculator reminding you that you’ll never touch the principal because interest grows faster than freelancer income. Sometimes it’s the new Forbes 30 under 30, reminding you that you had a small window to pursue your dreams (but you missed yours, sucker).
Recently, I’ve watched as commentators have projected this narrative onto one of my real-life heroes. For those of you who haven’t seen the photos of me donning my academic robes with my neon yellow Mercedes hat in lieu of my graduation cap, that hero is Lewis Hamilton, Formula 1 driver and 7x world champion. After losing the title last year (on the last lap of the last race after a controversial stewarding call) and not winning a single race this year, journalists are badgering him if he’s ready to retire (because your time is up, big boy). Redditors are discussing if Lewis is washed (he can’t compete with the young blood, after all, not in his mid-30s). Fellow drivers and rivals are downplaying his victories (you only have 7 titles because you had the fastest car, you talentless scam). The message is loud and clear. Quit dreaming and accept reality. You’re nobody now (if you ever were), and guess what? Your time is up.
The thing about Lewis, though, is that when they try to make his accomplishments sound meaningless, he rocks up to the paddock like it’s his runway. When other drivers mock him, he silences them. And when it would be easier to say he no longer has career ambitions, he says, ‘No matter how badly they want to win, I want it more.’
What makes Lewis a hero is not that he’s tied with Michael Schumacher for holding the most F1 titles.
He’s a hero because he hears those commentators as the bad guys who need defeating. Not as the narrators of his life.
And so, even when it hurts, he cannot be laughed out of his dreams.
In real life, unlike in fiction, it can be hard to distinguish our wants from our needs, the bad guy from the wise mentor. Who is the narrator who knows what’s best for us, and who is the trickster bluffing us out of our wants? Are we being laughed out of our dreams or taken to safer pastures? Lured away from danger or into the lion’s den? This task is especially daunting when the stakes are our livelihoods, and economic and material threats are real. Getting it wrong comes at a price.
I picture someone turning the page in Act 2 of my life as a novel. Rachel doesn’t really think she can take inspiration from Lewis Hamilton, does she? She must know her life is not as extraordinary as his. He recognizes those voices are bad guys and not narrators because he’s Lewis fucking Hamilton! But who is she? Where are her championships? Her arc does not begin with dreaming and end with overcoming fear and hardship. Hers ends in acceptance.
(Cue the Greek chorus, ‘You are no Lewis / Don’t think you are a hero / No, no, you’re not a hero / Accept, or it’s death!’)
But in fiction, like in real life, there are many character arcs worth journeying on and lessons worth learning. That’s why Brody lists a bunch of different themes your novel can portray, ranging from love to trust to resistance, all of which are deserving of stories and heroes. The trick is to match which hero with what story.
The difference between fiction and real life is that in real life there is no omniscient narrator dictating which narrative arc you’re on—and when it happens or how it looks. There’s only yourself. You get to decide who the bad guys are and how you survive them.
What matters, then, is not the story you think you’re in, but the one you want to live.
This leaves room for a question equal measures chilling and thrilling: which character arc do you want to go on?
Maybe I don’t have 7 world championships, but I do know this: I asked someone if I should apply for the job that I knew I didn’t want, and I asked someone else and then someone else until I got the answer I wanted. (What I’m saying is I know what I want). I want to write, not because I think I’m an exception but because I believe in the power of words to disrupt structures that impose limitations on our lives in the first place. (What I’m saying is I have purpose.) I quit academia because I stopped listening to the voices that said my PhD would be wasted if I left, that I’m not qualified or talented enough to achieve anything I actually want, that I will never pay off my loans and probably end up bankrupt. (What I’m saying is I, too, have the courage to identify and overthrow the bad guys, even when they are scary as hell).
What I’m saying is Lewis might be a hero for someone else if he journeyed on his acceptance arc, and that’s okay. But he’s my hero because he’s on the character arc I choose for myself.
And that is to keep dreaming.
This weekend, I will watch Lewis pull down his visor and step onto the track in Brazil, where he won his first championship. He is defending his record of winning a race every season. This season is winless, and there are only two races left.
I don’t feel acceptance of a bittersweet life lesson.
I feel rage. I feel anguish. I feel hope.
I am Furiosa charging the Citadel. I am Eowyn piercing my blade through the Witchking of Angmar. I am Katniss shooting my arrow at the arena’s dome until it comes crashing down.
Commentators will posit that Lewis just doesn’t have it in him anymore. Readers will whisper, ‘You don’t have it in you to be an author, Rachel. Take the 9-to-5 route and save yourself.’
But what they don’t know is that when Lewis starts the car, his engine is louder than their naysaying. What they don’t know is that Rachel is the transformed hero of Act 3. She has learned chosen her lesson.
The way we survive is by keeping dreams alive in each other.
The narrator villains grow quieter with every tap of her keyboard.
The end.
(Well, for now…)
Thanks for reading, friends. This essay came with lots of tears and encouragement from my mom and boyfriend who helped me overcome a serious case of ‘I can’t write anymore.’
Also, a friend made me aware that the link to the gnocchi recipe from my last 5-4-3-2-1 didn’t work. This link should work, and here’s the original on the NYT website (but you need a subscription).
Let me know what else you’d like to hear from me, and feel free to share this essay if you think it might resonate with someone you know. Comments are on.
x Rachie
I never finish anything. THIS, I devoured whole hog.
Write on, Rachel
Keep on writing Rachel. If that's what you want to do you can make it happen. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't.