Thomas Mann, writer of one of the most exquisite stories of beauty and suffering (and suffering because of beauty), Death in Venice, said, 'A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.'

That's the line in the sand. Not too much more. Because we all tell stories: in our heads to ourselves, to our friends, nemeses, children, partners, second-partners, hairdressers.

Some of the most important stories are the ones we tell our past and future selves. The ones we hope will heal wounds or stop us from getting cut.

Much like nations and histories, people (who are the nations and the history) have their own world-shaping stories. Here are three.

There was a little girl who had a very normal little-girl life. She grew into a painfully obvious sort of teenager, checked all the boxes for dissatisfaction and disaffectedness. She got older and settled into herself in ways that were surprising to no one. But, in spite of all this ordinariness, she had held for her entire life a special story.

She was a gift her mother gave to the family. It was a big and quite demanding family. The way they told it was that father and siblings desperately missed having a baby in the house and so they asked mother to consider, and mother, ever obliging, agreed. Just the one more.

When the girl got older and understood what it was to be a lagniappe, it didn't bother her as much as you might think. Because the whole family stood behind this story, to the point you'd think they believed it. It meant everything to her. They wanted her to feel she was all their wishes come true.

Here's another one. It was an election day - national elections - and a young woman had something of a history of getting antsy awaiting results. This year was especially terrible because she had something bordering on hope.

After driving aimlessly about the place and bothering far too many people on the phone, she drove into a compound of the equestrian branch of the police service. She did not know that you can't just turn up at places like that - places of protective services and such - on election day. She just thought that if she could look at a little bit of green and some pretty horses she might calm herself.

No one knows who was more surprised, the woman in the car or the police officer who knocked on the window. She rolled down the window. The policeman asked who she was and what her business was. She stuttered and spluttered and finally said, 'I am (name withheld) and I am here about the horses.'

The officer was gracious. After all, she was clearly not well. He explained that there were rules about not being in certain places on election days. She had the decency to wilt with embarrassment for all the reasons made plain by this story, and left.

The world so seldom delivers what we want it to when we want it to.

And the last story. Red pepper jelly is amazing. It is so amazing some people will practically crawl through glass for it. This is such a tale.

The young woman was not especially gifted i