Anyone's story

A novel doesn't have to be about any kind of person in particular. The protagonist doesn't have to be important, or successful, or live a life filled with incident. She doesn't have to reflect deeply on her own story, or to grow and change—Jake Barnes, one among many, can show that. Novels can crystallize around the most ordinary people on their most ordinary days. One of my favorites follows the manager of a Red Lobster through his shift, dealing with the squabbles of his employees and worrying about the weather. In an art form that spans from there to Anna Karenina, there's room for the stories of a million different people. But does that include everyone?

I know I've had stretches you couldn't make a novel from. Some days I wake up with a checklist of tasks, set about doing them, and go to sleep when they're done. Sure, there are moments that stand out, that catch attention. A bird lands on a wire with some straw in its beak, or a friend burns his tongue on a cup of coffee. A poet could turn a striking moment into poetry, maybe, but a novel? There’s no engine in that car.

One boring day does not (I hope) indict a life as non-novel material. Of course I’ve had times where I acted like a protagonist: reaching for something, I set off a chain of events, one following the next, building to a resolution. I’ve had times that resembled other narrative shapes, too, where I circled a tender point without ever getting up the courage to touch it. But some days, it’s neither. Some days, I just check boxes.

Perhaps there are people out there whose entire lives are check-box days. Who could tell? Looking at faces on the train, buried in smartphones or gazing out the window, I don't know what they’re climbing toward or running from, or whether they aren’t moving at all. I could imagine, of course—that guy with the poorly fitting suit is on his way down to his first meeting with some V.C.s to fund his startup, but he can’t get his head in the game because his girlfriend just walked out, etc., etc. But that’s just spinning out a story from a few spare details. That’s not his life; it’s what I might sketch from the tiniest sliver of his life.

I think this question ends not with an answer, but with an arms race. On one side, our lives filled with unconnected events, relationships that spark or fizzle or putter along, trajectories driven by inertia as well as desire. On the other, our novelists, sweeping the raw stuff of daily life into a story, finding meaning in forgotten corners. Can anyone’s life be the making of a novel? I don’t think we’ll know until it’s written.