I wish I were more of a person with discriminating taste. I’d go to wine tastings and immediately know the difference between a fruity Merlot and soft Cabernet, even if I was blindfolded. Why I’d even know what year the grapes were harvested. Yeah, I’d be that girl–if ever invited.
I wish I were more the clone of Martha Stewart and less obsessed that I may qualify for a slot on “Hoarders”. I wish the consistent first impression of my home was one of tranquility and profound organization, as opposed to whatever the antonyms of Feng Shui are.
I wish I were less critical of others, especially those I disagree with politically. I wish I weren’t baffled by those whose views are the polar opposite of my own. Instead, I wish I were the epitome of genuine acceptance, and if that’s not possible, than at least blissful ignorance.
I wish I were more able to calculate risks precisely. That in itself would be like having a super power because I would know which endeavors, jobs, and relationships are worth pursuing, and which are strictly a waste of time.
I wish I were more efficient and disciplined with the way I manage my time. If I were to master this one concept, I would be much closer than I am now to finishing a novel.
Lastly, I wish I were less ashamed of the well I once drank from. I wish I weren’t afraid of skeletons in the closet threatening to come out and do a little dance. I wish I felt safe and could shout to the world, “There now. Now you know everything.” Not yet anyway, I still value security, modesty, and above all privacy, more than brutal honesty.
After all, that’s what fiction is really for.