Is that really what I’ve been trying to do here all these years that I’ve been writing? Is it to tell a story, and if so, which one?
The story of a lass who longs for a love that exists only in Scottish romance? The story of a girl who has experienced more betrayals and deceit than acts of honor?
Or is this story — that remains to be told — the story of an endeavor, a quest for something far greater than herself—something she has not yet found?
There is no story in my whereabouts. I cut wood, tend the garden, work hard, keep my grieves to myslelf, bear extreme solitude without so much as a word.
Would this really be a story that, once told, would indicate a life lived?
*A quote from Outlander, the series I am watching nowadays