I recently read A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller.

I knew the subject of the book was story-writing, so I took the bait. I love to read stories, and even more so to tell a good story. Donald Miller is one of my favorite thoughts-to-paper authors, and reading this book was a pilgrimage. As I journeyed through the pages, I kept coming back to this simple idea he shares in the beginning:

A story is a character who

wants something and

overcomes conflict to get it.

He implores the reader to consider their life as a story, asking the simple question: “Are you living a good story or a bad story?”

Many people are living bad stories, perhaps by accident, because they’ve failed to define just what it is they are trying to achieve. We are all characters and we’re all overcoming conflict – but how many of us have stopped to ask exactly what it is we’re pursuing and whether or not it’s worth our legacy?

For most of my adolescent life I was living a bad story. A terrible one, actually. Over time I became a skilled manipulator, uttering more lies than truths – and I prided myself in my attention to detail and success in deception. I lied about everything from how I spent my summer break to which young men had been in pursuit of me as of late, crafting stories that made my life interesting. I was terrified at any other possibility. I just wanted to be liked.

In friendships I experienced much width, but very little depth. It’s not that I had shallow friends – in fact, if anything I was the superficial participant. I became very popular in high school – I was awarded “Class Clown” in our senior yearbook. It was an accolade I had invested all of my time and passion into achieving, yet I was still trapped in the grip of depression. My heart was secluded in an icy cold chamber, and even my popularity couldn’t get me out of bed.

I was living a bad story.

I went to college and thought my emptiness could only be filled by better plot lines. I devised greater schemes and tales, taking advantage of new territory. I studied humor and timing – hoping being funny would get me the kind of liked that would change the game. But the grander the fiction, the deeper the hole. My depression reached a critical mass, and I spent most of my sophomore days in the fetal position in my bed.

Being liked wasn’t a good story. It just wasn’t. It was a lame pursuit and the dividends were exaggerated.

I was sick of being liked. I wanted to be known.

Good stories always start with seemingly impossible goals. It starts with us pursuing something we’ve never been able to do before and taking the steps to get there. The story itself is written on the journey as we reach new personal heights – not for bragging rights, but because discomfort shapes character. It doesn’t matter if someone else has done it – the question is: have I?

My story started with a pen, a piece of notebook paper, and a shaky hand. I wrote six letters to my friends, attempting my impossible: the truth. I filled my waste basket with crumpled balls of fear, each letter containing more boldness than the last. I vomited in the trash can by the post office (I promise that’s true) as I clutched those six envelopes of not-yet-experienced. Releasing them into the slot was my first step towards a new story, a good story. (One that ends with a passion for community and intimate friendship).

One of my favorite preachers once said “We are the most entertained generation in the history of mankind and arguably the most bored.”

I think he’s right.

We have access to more stimulation in our hands than we ever have, yet we become mindlessly numb to it. We have more TV shows airing today than ever before, yet we go to bed exhausted and empty after a day of binge watching on Netflix. Airplanes afford us the ability to explore the world in hours rather than days and we spend our vacations on our phones and eating at commercial restaurants. We have more medical solutions and nutrition facts than any time in history, and we have to motivate ourselves to get our healthy bodies off the couch.

Entertainment is not the solution to boredom.

Maybe we just need to live a better story. Maybe we need to toss out our perfunctory goals – the safe ones, the predictable and acceptable ones. Maybe we need to pick something impossible and just try. And try harder than we want to.

Over Christmas, I borrowed my mom’s Jeep for a few days to visit a friend – stranding her at home (thanks again, Nanc!). While I was gone, I received this email from her:

20 degrees and 1-2″ of new snow.  Got the driveway and sidewalk shoveled, so nice outside I decided to walk across the golf course.  Got over to the sledding hill, decided the kids there were having too much fun, came back, grabbed the sled and headed back over.  There was the sweetest family there (I have a picture to prove it)–the little girls wanted to show me how to go down the hill, their 2 yr. old sister was so adorable.  I went down 5 (yes, 5) times.  Exhilarating!!!  I may just do it again sometime!

My 62-year-old mother with a historically bad back, living a good story. Sometimes living a good story is the compilation of a lot of little good stories, times when we were willing to try something new.

The good stories are told on TV and in books, not lived. Living vicariously through a box is a waste of your life! It’s not only possible, but so innate to our inner being to live a good story. A great story. If we’re going to overcome conflict anyway, it might as well be for something marvelous.

It’s not up to me to say who is living a good story and who is living a bad one, but I can ask you – are you alive?

Maybe the start to a good story is taking your TV to the dump.

Impossible, right?