When Books Imitate My Life

I know that a book is enjoyable when the protagonist is relatable, but it's a little unnerving when you realise you often have the exact same thoughts as your main characters.  My current book is the kind of story that makes me laugh at the pithy, resigned way my main character observes his life, but only because I often observe mine the same way.

I'm not yet halfway through my book, which I prefer - I've still got a way to go so I can savour the story, and the anticipation of when I next get to read.  I'm not yet at that panicky stage when you really want to see how the story ends, but you don't want it to actually end - the internal struggle is nearly overwhelming.

I suppose a story is more relatable when it's set in the present, and doesn't involve any exotic locations or supernatural elements. But that's my favourite kind of story. I always seem drawn to books in which the main character is someone frustrated with their (often self-imposed) oppressed creativity, someone who is nearing 30 and still doesn't know what they want to do in life.  

Not that I'm unhappy with my life, but I just think I'm nearing the age where things haven't worked out the way I thought they would, and I'm realising that's the way it is for most people. Does that mean I'm finally becoming an adult? If so, it's about time. Up until now I've felt perpetually 12 - a bit awkward, internally clumsy and with front teeth a bit too big - but still with childish hope.  But lately things have been shifting and I can't really pinpoint when or why.  I'm still hopeful, and my dreams haven't faded at all, but now I feel like someone with determination and the realisation that your dreams don't magically drop out of a unicorn's rear and shower you with sparkles while turning you into a pop-star.  I feel purposeful and more in control, which is probably more exciting than any childhood dream.  Self-reliance is no longer scary, it's liberating and the anticipation of what I'll achieve as an adult is pretty cool.  I only wish it'd happened to me sooner.  

When did this turn into a therapy session. Sneaky books making me think about stuff.

(If anyone is wondering, it's called Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace)