Stories we tell

When you’re in the middle of a story It isn’t a story at all only a confusion, a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass, or splintered wood, like a house in a whirlwind or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids and all aboard are powerless to stop it.  It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all when you’re telling it to yourself or to someone else.

Margaret Atwood