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If you could take on any character in fiction for a day, who would it be? I'm thinking of that very question right now, and wondering to myself who would I choose. It's a very difficult question as there are so many interesting, intriguing and incredible characters out in storyland to choose from. But, then I think if I read a book about myself, would I want to be her? Would I?

It's a deep question when you delve inside it. It's a question that can bring up emotions, that have the potential to tell you something about yourself. I found myself at first feeling okay. I was only allowing a shallow response and not going deep at all. I knew though, that what was stopping me was not my friend. It was a programme of disappointment that had run so many times, that it was easier to become numb, to lie and paint on a smile. It was the Barbie in me who had to look plastic and false. And don't forget perfect.

I realised that, although I had read about so many great characters, I had neglected the most important story of all. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am a happy child. I have always been a happy girl. But, that programme got stuck somewhere and became a mask. Somewhere, sometime, I grew up and the fairy tale I'd been promised didn't happen. At some point life just got hard.

It didn't happen straight away. I had fun in my twenties, brought up babies in my thirties, got burnt out in my forties, and now in my fifties, I've become contemplative and am wondering what happened? Where did the years go? And what happened to the dreams I once held? I ask myself those questions and smile with a new sense of knowing. Life can get away from you at times and it is easy to look back with nostalgia that is tinged with melancholy.

It is a way of looking at a past. It is a way of viewing it from an almost gothic romance perspective, where life becomes dark and dour. I think, in that sense, I could have seen my life written very well by the likes of Emily Bronte, but Catherine would have laughed. She'd have said my life wasn't hard enough, not by a long shot. I could not have been a Bronte heroine. There's been too much light and laughter for me to be considered into that genre.

So, I look again, and look more closely this time. I unpeel another layer to work out how I arrived in my fifties to finally be the housewife I never wanted to be. It's a point in time to re-evaluate. It's a time to consider where Rita would be now. Rita from Willy Russell's, "Educating Rita", a story that impacted me so strongly as a teen in the 80's. I loved her fire and passion. So much so, that I embarked on a journey to University to study English and History. 

I became a teacher. I loved it and I loathed it. It was the very best of me and the worst. By the time I left teaching I felt my wings had been well and truly clipped. I stumbled out from underneath the chalk face and wondered who the hell I was. But there was still a fire within me that made me stand up tall and keep walking along the path. I hadn't felt the need to talk to the wall like Shirley Valentine. But then, that had worked for Shirley, so maybe I should have. This is not a regret. Just a note to self, that it was an option. 

The good thing is that when we really look closely at ourselves, we find there is more of a story than we'd first like to credit ourselves with. Or at least, that is what I'm finding as I analyse whether I'd be happy to choose myself as my own heroine. 

Thankfully, there is still more of the story to come, and as this fifth decade still has eight years to go, I am looking for ways to ensure that the melancholy doesn't take hold. The dreems within me are stirring and my love for language and stories is taking shape. 

The identity I have isn't fixed. My mind isn't set. Both are still within the creative sphere to mould and remould. This could be the best chapter of all. Perhaps. It is just a matter of knowing where I am and where I want to go so that I can shape it accordingly. I have played many roles, some have taken hold more than others, and I have run repeats that would impress Rachel, Monica and Pheobe.

It gives me hope to see there is always a possibility to create something new. To live each moment and breathe in fully, noticing the little details and etching out time to carve something unique. That is the story I am now writing. It's a story that hasn't been completed. This character of mine still has discoveries to make. 

I will take care to become the woman I would admire. One that is honest, gentle and loving. But also, fierce, funny and fabulous. I mean why not? After all, we can always choose who we want to be, and who we are. We can come out of our shells and smile bright just because. We can walk confidently into any room and just be. 

My story is one that impacts and punches its way into the hearts of those that are ready to hear it. For others, it stays unread on the shelf. But it's mine so I'm okay with that.

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>*“It was much pleasanter at home,' thought poor Alice, 'when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life!”*
**Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland**