I often wonder what character I play in the story of my life. Am I the overworked housewife, deserving of sympathy? The nagging mother who should be checked? The over-scheduling parent, or the parent limiting children's opportunities? The time-starved artist, suffering without "a room of her own?" And if I am the overworked housewife or the time-starved artist, why on earth can't my husband see it?
In reality, I can be all of these things at the same time. Or none of them. I try to do the right thing and fulfill my responsibilities; sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. But to describe myself, in conversation or in writing, as any one of them, would be incomplete.
If I can remember that my fictional characters, too, will be larger than their sterotypes, my stories will be richer. Like my own life.