In this age of instant and complete access to information, I have to wonder, now that I’m getting older, what is going to kill me?
After all, I’ve read a thousand books where people die. I’ve watched parents and family members die. I am older than I ever thought I’d be. So it makes sense to think about The End Game. Hey, we’re writers. Can’t we review the plot of our lives and figure out where the character Death is going to make her entrance?
What is going to kill me? Could it be the fact that as third child out of four, I was not compelled to eat my vegetables as a child? Could it be that I didn’t quit smoking until I was 31? Maybe my emotional ups and downs have yanked on my nervous system to the extent that it’s worn out? Or do I enjoy the fruit of the grape too much? Maybe it’s all heredity and not at all in my control?
All that said, how would you plot your own demise? But here’s the kicker–you’re writing a comedy. Nothing bleak here. Let’s make Her Majesty, Death, dance a jig. What the heck is going to kill you?