My life is a make-believe multiverse of reality. I just invent stuff as I go along. This isn’t only about writing, but almost every aspect of my existence. I am a character, sometimes hapless, in an endless stream of comedy, drama, action, and romance stories.
I live without fear of consequences when it pertains to my career or hobby decisions. You want me to build a shed from reclaimed driftwood? Sure, I can do that… probably. I’ve never done it before, but I’m certain I’ll figure it out along the way.
No, I’m not a psychopath, at least no professionals have ever labeled me as such. I don’t wish ill or harm on anyone, but I don’t fret over their self-inflicted suffering either, and my definition of self-inflicted is extremely broad.
This is where make-believe comes into play. At some point during my midlife crisis, I stopped seeing events as ruling my life. Everything became a story, like a book, television show, or movie. Each situation compartmentalized into its own silo, a silo I could just walk away from and forget about while I visited another silo. There are a lot of disparate silos in my head.
Basically, every aspect of my life exists independently of the others. My make-believe multiverse of reality is a catalog of shows that I choose to live inside until I get bored or frustrated and move on to the next show.