I would like to believe this is a story I’m telling. I need to believe it. I must believe it. Those who can believe that such stories are only stories have a better chance.
If it’s a story that I’m telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off.
It isn’t a story I’m telling.
It’s also a story I’m telling, in my head, as I go along.
Tell, rather than write, because I have nothing to write with, and writing in any case is forbidden. But if it’s a story, even in my head, then I must be telling it to someone. You don’t tell a story only to yourself, there must be someone else.
Even when there is no one.
A story is like a letter. “Dear You,” I’ll say. Just you, without a name. Attaching a name attaches “you” to the world of fact, which is riskier, more hazardous: who knows what the chances out there are, of survival, of yours? I will say “you.” “You,” like an old love song. “You” can mean more than one.
“You” can mean thousands.
“I’m not in any immediate danger,” I’ll say to “You.”
I’ll pretend you can hear me.
But it’s no good, because I know you can’t
—
Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale
This is a really profound piece of writing.
